Becoming Harry Potter
by Stjernefald
Summary: Harry Potter, sorted into Slytherin, finds his life yanked into a world of unfound machinations and hidden agendas – and suddenly Harry must realize that there are far worse things in the world than ambitions.
1. The Duel

**Disclaimer** : I don't own Harry Potter.

 **A/N:** I always get nervous before uploading these things, which is good, I think.

Well, here I am with a new story, even though I promised myself I wouldn't do another until one of my other stories were done. But the idea came as I read the first Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone again, realizing there were certain things I'd have liked to see. Hopefully I can do the idea justice.

There will be elements of the books in this story, taking inspiration from canon at certain times and liberty with it at other times. But as we get further and further into Harry and Ron's tale, it will start to grow into its own thing completely.

Harry will be the main character, but Ron will be a prominent figure, too. Other characters will be drawn in as the story dictates it. If you, reader, have any questions you can ask and I'll try to respond. But hopefully the story will be thoroughly enough written to answer any questions there might arise.

Well, that's all for me. Have a good one.

* * *

 **The Midnight Duel**

 _"Hmm," said a small voice in my ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So where shall I put you – Mr Potter?"_

 _I gripped the edges of the stool, panicky, and thought with all of my being, Not Slytherin, not Slytherin…_

 _"Not Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice, and I could almost touch its challenging tone. "Are you sure? There's greatness in you, and Slytherin could pave the way. No? Well, you could be a fine addition to the Gryffindor house, I suppose – I can even see a future for you where you might excel in Ravenclaw, though I do find you a tad… too temperamental to truly thrive amongst them… Hufflepuff is most definitely out of the question, though they might do you some good…"_

 _Gryffindor, then, I bargained, thrusting the thought to the forefront of my mind – or wherever the being had slivered through my head. Gryffindor, please?_

 _"Is this because of that Weasley boy? The human sentiment never cease to amaze!"_

 _Ron. Surely, he'd be going to Gryffindor – as had the rest of his family apparently. I didn't want to lose my very first friend already after only a couple of hours. The injustice seemed beyond inhuman. I tried to hide the thought, however, tried to mask my desire to – for the first time in my life – have a friend._

 _Something so simple._

 _The hat, of course, saw right through my fickle, young mind. "Ah – perhaps I misjudged you, though there is plenty in your mind to the contrary." It seemed to sense my trepidation. "Slytherin, as a house of the finest magical school in existence, should welcome you with open arms. Unfortunately, with recent events in mind, I imagine this won't be the case now. You're a rather special case, aren't you? Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived… Your future's smeared with challenges you must become equal to…"_

 _I didn't comprehend what it was talking about at the time. I was just an eleven-year-old boy, trying not to piss myself in fear in front of the rest of the school. It rambled, I told myself. Sheer ramblings of an entity not really of a sound mind. So I sat, clinging to the stool as I had since I first sat down. My muscles in my forearms were beginning to tremble, my knuckles turning paper-white, shaking, shaking, shaking. Shaking._

 _It continued._

 _"Perhaps I should be fair. Grant you a small measure of respite. Your life, no matter what I now choose for you, will be filled with hardships no child should bear. Yet you must. You must. Tolerate the pain! I see in you a desire to thrive – and a courage to stand against all – even Dark Lords. Yes – you'll walk where your peers dare not. Won't you! I see it all in your mind. Please, may you one day find it in yourself to forgive me this moment – this_ defining moment _– but I'd do you a disserve by simply granting your desires. There's too much at stake, Harry Potter."_

 _My eyes, which had been narrowed in a potent mixture of concentration and fear, widened as fear won out at last._

 _NO!_

 _"SLYTHERIN!"_

* * *

There was a time where I thought I'd never meet a boy I'd despise more than Dudley.

And then I met Draco Malfoy.

"So – what do you say, Potter?" Malfoy whispered, casting his eyes round the dungeons as we left Potions, heading towards the Slytherin's common room with the rest of the first year Slytherins. "Wizard's Duel in the common room at midnight? Or are you scared?"

"You wish," I answered coolly. A furtive glance at Ron Weasley told my friend that I had, in fact, no idea what a Wizard's Duel was and would very much like his input.

"Of course we will be there!" Ron jumped to my aid. I smiled, hiding my relief at Ron's eagerness. He contemplated Malfoy and his goons for a second with a keen eye. "I'm his second, who's yours?"

Malfoy, surprised evident in his countenance at being put on the spot, looked between his two friends, both wearing very dumbfounded expressions at the proceedings.

"Crabbe," he said at last, turning to us with a confident, if not slightly forced smirk I couldn't wait to wipe of his stupid face. "Crabbe's my second."

"Okay." Ron's voice took on a forced, high-pitched jovial tone, reaching the entirety of our classmates. He was well-aware that the rest of our house had stopped and was listening intently to our confrontation. It was quickly becoming quite a myth – our rift – within the Slytherin house. "Midnight, then… In the common room-"

"Wait," I cried, suddenly remembering my most hated teacher. "Ron – _Snape_ …"

"What – oh." For the first time something other than sheer glee touched my friend's eyes. "Shit! Well, obviously Harry and I would like the duel to take place a different place. On neutral grounds, you might say."

Malfoy sneered. "We're all Slytherins, Weasley – unless, of course, you forgot in your dismay."

"Well, you'd be right. Except for the fact that Snape's treating us like we're Gryffindors and you like – well, like you're… whatever you're to him."

There was a subdued measure of laughs and giggles coming from our year mates. Daphne Greengrass looked like she tried her best to hide it behind her small hand, but it was impossible not to see the way her entire body shook. Eventually, she gave in and giggled the loudest of all of them.

Well, I thought, at least we were a source of amusement.

Draco Malfoy was turning a rather alarming shade of crimson, his humiliation clashing horridly with his righteous fury.

"You damn blood traitor! You-"

"What about the Trophy Room, then? At midnight?" I cut in before Malfoy got going. I remembered the room from one of the first days, when Ron and I had been lost in our exploring of the castle. It had seemed rather secluded at the time.

Malfoy, still an alarming red, which clashed horribly with his blond hair, nodded at last. "At midnight, then _Potty_ , _Weasel_ – in the Trophy Room."

Then he pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered, cutting ahead towards the stonewall that acted as entrance to our common room.

"Potty? Really?" Ron shook his head in disgust, then startled as something occurred to him. "Oi!" he shouted above the sudden noise of people. "Do remember to show up! Wouldn't wanna lose face now, would we?"

Malfoy threw a not-so-eloquently finger back at us and continued on his path, goons in tow.

"Huh. I didn't know wizards used _that_ , too," I said, turning to Ron. I smiled, but I could feel a healthy dose of nervous excitement filling my body; hands shaking as the reality of the situation in its entire slowly revealed itself. I clamoured for my wand in my pocket, finding comfort as a familiar surge of warmth, of magic, flowed through me.

I had never duelled before. Worse, I didn't know a single jinx or curse with the familiarity that I believed was necessary if I should use them in a duel. Sure, I'd read about them, even tried a few, but this was _different_.

Ron, a picture of dogged, stupidly human determination all of a sudden – god he had changed much in the few days since we were sorted – took in my appearance, then sighed.

"Look – we'll skip… whatever we have now and head straight to the library. It can't be too hard finding something useful there." Ron started steering me away from the rest of our Housemates, leading me up through the castle towards the library. "Besides I doubt Malfoy knows anything harmful, eh? You've seen him in class. You're loads better than him!"

"But I don't know any curses!"

"Not yet. Besides, I'm sure Malfoy can't know too many, either."

"One, Ron!" I blinked. "God, that's awful – try say that ten times in a row…"

"One, Ron – one, Ron – one, Ron-"

"Stop it." I laughed. Felt a little better, too. "But seriously, he only needs to know one curse before it starts becoming a problem."

"I've seen you in Transfiguration!"

"We've only had two classes so far. And Transfiguration won't do me much good in a duel."

"Picking up a curse or two won't be a problem," Ron said with evident conviction, handily ignoring my protest. Then there was a nasty sort of rumbling sound coming from his abdomen, and he groaned as if pained. Then he grinned awkwardly – skin crimson-tinged with sheepishness. "Well, right after an early lunch, eh?"

"All right. Wait." I paused, narrowing my eyes at Ron, as he steered us up to ground level, sunlight pouring in from the windows and the Entrance Hall. "What's a second for, anyway?"

"Well," Ron began distracted, eyeing the entrance to the Great Hall like he could already taste the food, "a second makes sure everything is in order. You know, in case you die." His tone of voice insinuated that what he'd just said was nothing out of the ordinary.

I blinked at his retreating back, stopping by the marble staircase, mouth half-agape.

" _What_!"

* * *

A lunch later – Ron stuffed to bits and me feeling slightly nauseated in the wake of it – found Ron and I browsing the library. I'd never been what you'd call an avid reader, not even whilst living with the Dursley's. But, when Ron and I first stepped into the library of Hogwarts, I knew we'd stumbled into something wondrous.

There's magic here, I marvelled to myself, as I would for years to come. There was magic that had been dusted off for a moment of use, only to be discarded and forgotten for a time again, gathering dust anew on the shelves. Books aligned as far as I could see. Books that could teach you how to turn owls into cups, cups into books – and books into malevolent book monsters! If you can't imagine my shit-eating grin reading that, then nothing will strengthen your spirit, good sir.

Anyway. There were books that could teach you how to vanish a spilled mess of ink on parchments. There were books that could tether an idea unto reality – _conjuration_ , advanced branch of Transfiguration! – the idea of yanking something out of non-being for a time into this silly, wonderful world of ours! Fanatical concepts that seemed so very wonderful.

Oh, and there were curses. Lots of curses. Jinxes. Charms. Counter-curses. Hexes. Transfiguration. All within the reach of my fingertips.

So easy – yet so intricate…

I lingered there for a moment, our first lesson with McGonagall still fresh on my mind – the match had turned instantaneously into a needle. Barely even uttered the incantation – just a thought and a natural response. Like the broom last afternoon with the Gryffindors at our flying lesson. I wondered if my theory with the brooms and their sensitivity to uncertainty could be applied to magic, as well.

It was… _intoxicating_. And seeing the others struggle with something that had seemed so very simple… by the end of the class only the muggleborn in Gyrffindor – what was her name again? – had come even close to pulling it off, too.

Ron pulled me out of my thoughts with an impatient tuck on my sleeve.

"We're here to look up curses, remember?" Ron said with a sour look. "I didn't come to the bloody library to look up Transfiguration!"

"Keep your voice down, would you! I don't want _her_ finding us here, when we should be in class."

Ron and I, though we'd exhausted Hogwarts in our attempts to distance ourselves from the rest of our house in the past week, hadn't been to the library before now, and I'd quite forgotten the librarian's name.

"Sorry," Ron muttered half-heartedly, shoving a book into my hand. "Take a look."

I did. It's tittle – _Curses and Counter-curses_ – promised with it an air of usefulness we couldn't discard out of hand presently.

I nodded. "Seems useful enough. C'mon."

"Seems _dead_ useful, you mean," Ron said, following me.

We found a secluded table with a view to the entrance. Asking Ron to keep an eye for the no-doubt awful librarian I quickly skimmed through the pages, skipping the introduction entirely.

I can always come back for it later, I thought to myself, knowing that wasn't very likely.

As I hunkered down and began rifling through the pages, distractedly finding blank parchments and quills from my bag, I heard Ron mutter to himself as he got up and went through the aisles and rows and columns of books at a run, fingertips brushing against the names of books that might be of use to our noble cause.

When Ron returned a good while later, he had books stacked upon books nestled in his arms, the pile of them reaching over the top of his head. Every now and then, I could see his head poking out to the side of the books, making sure he wasn't about to fall over something.

"Here!" Ron cried, his exhaustion evident as he slumped in the seat beside me. There had been a tremendous thud as he had let the books spill all over the table.

"Ron." I scrambled to safe the parchment with the still-wet ink from my latest notes – one of them had seemed cool, too. "This seems a bit… _overkill_ , doesn't it?"

"Well, I couldn't decide!" There was a maniac sort of light in his eyes that had me equally impressed as terrified. "One of them," he began, rifling through the pile of books, searching for a specific, "even had a curse that blocked the airways so you can't breathe!"

Okay, terrified – definitely terrified!

"Ron, we are _not_ trying to kill him," I said slowly, then blinked and looked about the library before leaning in close. "Are we?"

"Of course not!" Ron said quickly, too quickly, if I'm being perfectly honest. "Well, I don't _think_ so. And the curse itself won't kill him if I understand it right. The spell will stop when he falls unconscious."

He was right. The spell looked awfully simple for what effects it promised. It would positively terrify Malfoy! He'd loose consciousness, unable to breath, thinking this was the end! It might seem a tad excessive, but if anybody deserved it, it was Malfoy.

Ron agreed wholeheartedly.

"Serves the git right, if you ask me!" he muttered darkly.

I nodded, copying the spell and its specifics onto my growing list of what I'd aptly labelled _Duel Spells_.

"It might even give us some credit in our house for once. Seems like the kind of magic they'd approve of, you know?"

"Yeah… Not sure I want that, though. Some of our _Housemates_ -" he spat the word as if it was the darkest curse known to wizards, "-are simply… simply…"

"Awful? Evil? Bloody racists?"

"I don't know. Mum still hasn't written me yet. I'm sure she will, mind you, it's just – she's already written Fred and George. I know, because I asked them." Ron's ears were taking on a faint hue of pink, distress clear in everything from the tone of his voice to the way his skin heated. "And the worst part is I can't even blame her for it. I mean – why did we have to get sorted into bloody Slytherin?"

Ron, it became more and more clear to me as Ron sometimes revealed little nuggets of knowledge of his family, had been in some ways suffering the same as me during his childhood. Well, not the same exactly, I'd no doubt that he'd grown up in a loving environment. But almost everything Ron owned was handed down from his older brothers. Even something as sacred as his wand had once belonged to one of his older brothers – which really only made it even more impressive, I thought, that he could do magic with it at all.

Ron was, in a nutshell, trapped in the shadows of his brothers, and Hogwarts had been his way out of the shadows.

Getting sorted into Slytherin was an injustice beyond all reason to Ron, but I detected a glimmer of hope for us both.

"Give it time," I said, padding him awkwardly on the shoulder; he looked at me as if I'd just whacked him and I lowered my hand, embarrassed. "They'll come around. And getting sorted into Slytherin will make it easier for you to stand out in the family, right?"

Ron laughed, and though it was hardly a happy laugh he did seem more at peace. "Yeah. The first Weasley to be sorted into Slytherin – oh Merlin, I can already imagine Fred and George when we get home…"

"Maybe your sister will go to Slytherin, too."

"Harry. I wouldn't _want_ my sister in Slytherin. Ever. Sure, it could be worse. I guess. But most of them aren't exactly nice."

I couldn't argue with that. We'd been to Hogwarts for a little over a week by now, and already I had an outright dislike for most of our housemates. A few of those dislikes could turn into outright hatred by the end of tonight.

I sighed, casting the dreadful thoughts away, and looked at my _Duel Spells_. "Okay. We have a couple of hours before dinner-"

"We can't go to dinner, Harry, remember? Snape would put us in detention from now until seventh year before we'd sit down at the table."

An overstatement, of course, but appropriately pointing out our predicament.

"Well, we can't _not_ go to dinner," I said, slouching in my seat, feeling faint at the mere thought. "I'd _die_ of hunger before midnight."

"We have to. I'm not facing Snape after skipping out on classes! Not until after we deal with Malfoy, at least."

"If only we knew where the kitchen is. Wait – you do!" I said hopefully, seeing a gleam of an idea growing in Ron's eyes.

"I don't." Ron paused, smiling triumphantly as I visibly deflated before him. "But I know some who might."

"Who?"

"Fred and George. They always go on and on about all the secrets they have found here."

"Okay. Won't hurt, I guess." I stood up, stuffing the parchment into my bag. "Besides, we have everything we need from here."

As we left, we forgot the mess of books in our excitement. And right as we were on our way out of the library, the librarian entered as if out of nowhere, as if she'd been waiting for us all along.

Maybe adult wizards did that. I shuddered. That thought was creepy as hell.

"Hey!" she cried, recognizing my scar the moment she laid eyes on it. "Shouldn't you two be in class?"

"Got off early with Professor Quirrell," Ron answered at once, completely deadpan.

"Oh. Well, he has been far too lenient as of late," she muttered to herself, narrowing her eyes at us in a manner that said she didn't trust us. "Well, then, off with you two, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley."

When we got out of the library, Ron whispered, "How the hell did she know my name?"

I shrugged. "Maybe it was your hair."

* * *

Fred and George had been… an experience. Hogwarts, I realized, was a treasure map of experiences just waiting to be explored.

It _was_ a magical castle, after all.

After a conversation that could hardly constitute as an actual conversation – Ron had kept up easily enough, though, used to the twins' distinctive mannerisms – they'd shown us the way to the kitchen.

As it turned out, the location seemed somewhat obvious. Directly below the Great Hall, there was a corridor where one could find a painting of a bowl of fruit, which was the entrance to the kitchens. Allegedly.

I stepped up to the painting, before pausing. "Eh…" I floundered for a sense of certainty, feeling somewhat ridiculous. "It was the pear, right?"

Ron, equally unsure of his brothers' sincerity, it seemed, shrugged noncommittally. "That's what they said."

In his tone of voice, one could hear a fond smile.

I stuck my hand out and tickled the pear. It gave a sort of child-like giggle, squirmed away from my touch, and transformed into a green doorknob, revealing a doorway.

"Oh."

I whipped my head round to focus on Ron. The surprise of his voice touched his eyes.

"You look surprised."

"I was sure it was some sort of prank, that's all."

"So you'd let me test the waters, huh? Thanks."

Ron smirked. "Better you than me, mate."

The kitchen was an enormous, high-ceilinged room, almost a complete replicate of the Great Hall above us. Five tables stood as they stood in the Great Hall, some kind of magic obviously connecting between the two rooms. Vast masses of glittering brass pots flew through the air, and pans sizzled and heaped along the stonewalls. The great fireplace, which stood at the far end of the room, was quenched for now, the sizzling food providing ample heat for the room.

The room was abuzz with a frenzied sort of kinetic energy, little green creatures that reached to about my knees bustled about with infinite energy, it seemed.

I could feel my mouth agape, which happened far too frequently these days, tendrils of awed disbelief coursing though me.

"House Elves," Ron said, grinning when he noticed my expression, always taking great pleasure in showing me these kinds of wonderful, daily wizardry things. "Fred or George – can't remember which – once told me about them actually being here at Hogwarts. I don't think I really believed them for some reason."

House Elves, like most beings and things blessed with magic, turned out to be awesome. Barely little more than a week into my first term at Hogwarts, I still expected to wake up any moment and finding myself back in the cupboard, realizing it had all just been this perfectly wondrous dream.

There was a gratitude in that. One that, even to this day, where I can safely say I've discovered the other side of the coin – the darker, more brutal side – never quite went away.

We were served a quick dinner, and, taking a bag of small muffins with us, we left in search of an abandoned classroom.

There was a sense of urgency in our hurried steps, fear of discovery mingling with our excitement, for this was exciting. Exciting to break the rules, to defy Snape, to challenge Malfoy and his friends. Everything seemed so daring and noble to the eleven-year-old boy who grew up bullied and forgotten in a cupboard.

Whispers followed me as we ascended and descended staircases that moved in every which way, adding to my already burgeoning feeling of paranoia. Were they the whispers of my fame, merely a by-product of my strange, inexplicable past? Or were they part of a more elaborate scheme? Had Snape already found out about our youthful delinquency? Coming to put a stopper on our misdeeds.

"Harry Potter…"

"Beside the redhead!"

"Slytherin… Harry Potter…"

"Who'd have guessed?"

In Slytherin Ron and I were treated mostly with indifference – granted there was a certain measure of dislike tangled within that indifference from some specific few fractions, but we were mostly left to ourselves. With the rest of Hogwarts, however, there was no such reprieve. People were _curious_.

Sometimes even the teachers seemed disappointed or confused about it – none more so than Snape, of course. Though I could still vividly see the impression of quiet disbelief McGonagall had favoured me in our first Transfiguration class. And I had a feeling it wasn't _just_ because of the ease in which I'd completed her task.

The whispers, though… the never-ending wave of voices that clung to my shadow wherever I went; it certainly weren't in our favour when we tried to be inconspicuous.

We'd been walking about the corridors of Hogwarts for some time, more than I care to admit, when we admitted to ourselves that, really, we had no idea where we were going. Hogwarts was vast and still far too new for us to fully navigate.

We stopped in the middle of one such corridor, letting the older students, Gryffindor by the looks of their colours, walk by. We looked at each other, Ron and I, silently debating.

"Defence classroom?" Ron asked at last.

"Yeah." I nodded and turned on the spot, going in the direction I thought was the quickest – the one we'd come from. "Let's hope – where're you going?"

Ron stopped, looking back from where he'd gone, which was the opposite direction to the one I'd taken. "Well, to the Defence classroom," he said with a frown. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "That is – that way."

"No. It's this way."

An uneasy weight clung to the heart of our little duo. I cast my eyes about, eyeing the students round us. Most of them were staring at me expectantly, like they were waiting to see what surprises the Boy-Who-Lived had in store for them next.

"We are _not_ ," Ron began slowly with a shake of his head, "asking for directions. I refuse."

Frankly I didn't find the thought very appealing, either. But beggars can't be choosers, right?

I grimaced inwardly, scowling my features into the most pleasant smile I could muster, and turned to the nearest and dearest student of Hogwarts.

"Excuse me…"

* * *

In the, thankfully, empty classroom, I settled my heavy schoolbag against a stool, vowing to find some charm to spell the thing lighter, and took out my notes from the library.

"Okay. We have a couple of hours before we need to leave for the Trophy Room." I grabbed a muffin and started munching on it as I glanced down the notes, taking in the different spells and their usefulness. I swallowed audibly. "I think we should choose three spells and focus on learning them."

"Don't you think you could learn more, though?" Ron said, peering over my shoulder.

"Perhaps. But this isn't a classroom kind of thing. Duels are… _fast_ , you know. Wand-movements becomes less precise if you're not careful, and the power of the spells equally so, unless you're very skilled and practiced with the spell. I'd rather we learn three spells very well than ten poorly."

"I don't think I can even learn three spells in one afternoon, but, hey, it's not _my_ duel."

"Thanks, Ron." I scanned the list a last time, then nodded. "This. The Shield Charm."

"That…" Ron's eyes boggled as he went over the specifics of the charm, taking in the complexity of the theory, the rules, and the necessary wand movement in correlation to the mind's intentions to make the charm stick. "I'll just look, eh?"

I nodded, looking at the spell again, studying it. It was complex, far more so than anything else we'd covered yet. But somehow I felt it was within my capabilities to master.

Taking great care, I drew out my wand and, with deliberate slowness, waved it in the correct manner, thinking the spell, thinking of the protective nature of it, without yet voicing it.

The air shimmered in front of me and a nearly undetectable pulse of some sort flowed outwards.

Could it be…?

"Ron – can you curse me?"

"You haven't said anything yet."

"Just try."

"Well, if you insist." He hopped off the desk he'd been sprawled on, taking a stand directly before me with his wand raised against me, like he was wielding a sword. "Here?"

"Yeah. Shot."

Ron, blinking, slowly lowered his wand with a grin. "I, ah, don't actually know any curses, Harry."

Ron… you idiot…

"Try the one at the top," I said, my countenance in a turmoil of fond exasperation and frustrated annoyance. "Seems simple enough."

Ron, going back to the desk to study the charm in my notes, came back to stand face-to-face with me a couple of minutes later, tenacious will etched into his features.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"And your spell's still there, right?"

"If I've done it correctly, it should be there for quite some time."

"All right." Ron paused, muttering to himself as he waved his wand in a somewhat wild manner. Imprecise, I thought. "Here goes."

Despite knowing better, I braced myself for the impact like I was a muggle expecting a fist.

" _Petrificus Totalus_!"

Nothing happened.

"Dammit!" Ron swore, jabbing his wand in offense.

I, eyes narrowed and focused, calmly spoke, "Slow down your wand, Ron – and loosen up your wrist, it's too stiff."

"Stiff my arse-"

" _Ron_!"

Ron had a bit of a temper to put it mildly. Sometimes it was a good thing; most times it got us into all kinds of trouble.

This time, however, he calmed himself.

"All right," he said, mimicking what I'd done and did the wand movement slowly and with more precision without uttering the incantation.

"You ready?" he asked half-a-minute later and, without waiting for a response, waved his wand.

" _Petrificus Totalus_!"

A jet of invisible magic shot out of his wand, raced straight through my meagre shield, shattering it in the process, and left me stiffen and paralyzed on the floor a second later.

My eyes, the only movable part on my body, were going wild as I heard Ron's whoops of sheer joy.

"Did you _see_ that, Harry!"

Felt it, too, you idiot!

I couldn't even utter so much as a sound of protest. But as the seconds grew to what most have been an entire minute, Ron seemed to remember himself.

And, more importantly, me.

"Oh shit! Harry!" Hurried footsteps clang in the classroom and I found Ron in the line of my vision; something murderous must have been in my eyes, for Ron blanched as if struck when our eyes met.

"How do I reverse it?"

I cast my eyes meaningful to the desk with my notes.

"Oh. Right." He was out of my sight a second later, muttering to himself, as I lay there, helpless. Defenceless. I was reminded of Dudley all of a sudden. His sheer girth overpowering me in the schoolyards, pushing me into the cupboard, beating me on my way home from school. God, I hated this feeling.

The powerlessness.

"Right. This ought to do it," Ron said, coming back into my vision with his wand pointing straight at me. For a moment I felt a dread like a stone drop in my abdomen as fear seized me.

" _Finite Incantatem_."

I felt my body resume control of my limps, blood surging like a roar through me. I sat up, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand to disguise my discomfort for what it truly was. Fear.

Utter fear.

Ron, still giddy with the sense of success, seemed unable to hold all that he felt in that moment within his body.

"That was _bloody_ fantastic!" he cried. "It worked! It actually _worked_!"

"There's a wizard in you." I hoisted myself to my feet, narrowing my eyes at my own wand. Maybe I should be happy for Ron's success, but my own failure allowed me no such happiness. Taking a calming breath, focusing on nothing but the spell and my intentions with the spell, I waved my wand again.

A shimmer of magic slivered out of my wand. There was a visible disturbance in the air before me, like I'd super-charged the air with immense heat.

This time I felt the magic settle with more conviction.

"Try again, Ron," I said, spreading my arms wide, smirking with a confidence I hardly felt. "I dare you."

Ron, grinning like a fool just as I wished I could, raised his wand with a confidence he hadn't possessed moments ago.

" _Petrificus Totalus_!"

The charm took effect instantaneously, an invisible jet of reality-bending energy flying at me. It struck my shield, flaring wildly at the impact, and bounced back at Ron, striking and paralyzing him.

Ah… that felt _good_.

This time it was Ron's turn to glare menacingly. However, Ron didn't hold my hatred towards powerlessness, it seemed, for his eyes smiled with mirth more than anything else as he lay there.

Jabbing my wand, I released him with a _Finite Incantatem._

"How do you do magic?" Ron asked, when he was done testing his limps' mobility.

I furrowed my brow. "Like you, I imagine."

"No. I say the spell. You just… wave your wand."

"Well, as do some of the teachers. And a few of the adults I met in Diagon Alley."

"Yeah, but they're, you know, adults. Wordless magic – I'm sure it's called something else – well, it's only something we begin to learn at the end of our time here at Hogwarts. I think. Most never really bother learning it from what Bill told me. Even the Shield Charm is supposed to be too difficult for most adults, now that I think about it. Dad told me most of the wizards that work in the Ministry can't even perform a proper one."

Bill? I thought, filling the question for later. Most likely one of his brothers. Just how many did Ron have?

"Well." I shrugged, reaching for a smile that I found hard to find; I was a little uncomfortable with the tangible air of awe in Ron's voice. "Perhaps I'm just good with this sort of thing, you know? Can I try the Body-Bind Curse now?"

"Go ahead." Ron spread his arms, showing no inclination to defend himself; I rather admired the trust he placed in me.

 _Petrificus Totalus_!

Ron stiffened immediately as if bound by invisible ropes. I nodded, satisfied, and cancelled the effects with a wave of my wand.

"Again." Ron stood, grinning with a funny sort of look. "No words…"

* * *

Sneaking towards the Trophy Room in the cover of the darkness, tendrils of soft moonlight coming from the windows, I had to admit that Ron and I had had about the most fun afternoon I could ever remember having. Binding each other with magic. Disarming each other with magic. Magic. Oh, magic. Ron hadn't quite managed the Disarming Charm yet, or the Shield Charm for that matter, but his Body-Bind Curse was rather excellent.

It had even been an educational evening, I suppose. I'd mastered three spells to the point where, even during the heat of a duel, I'd recall the feel, precision, and elocution of the spells perfectly. Three spells – the Shield Charm, the Body-Bind Curse, and the Disarming Charm – and if the situation called for it I even had an ace in the hole.

That one, however, I still found myself unsure of. It seemed wrong. _Cruel_. Suffocating my opponents seemed…

Three spells, I thought with conviction. _Three_ spells. Not four.

"C'mon. I want to get there before Malfoy," Ron muttered, anxiously looking round; it had been over twelve hours since we began skipping classes and we could practically see the shadow of Snape's long, pointy nose round every corner now.

"Tomorrow is a Friday, right?"

"Yes."

"Are we going to classes?"

Ron seemed to give the question some thought before shrugging.

"Well, mum's already gonna skin me when she finds out – wait, she'd be forced to actually write to me, wouldn't she?"

There was a sort of gleeful amusement in Ron's voice. Barely a week ago, he had seemed almost frightened by his mother's – infamous – temper. Now he welcomed it.

Neglect did funny things to a boy.

I should know.

"So tomorrow we hide for the weekend, then?" I asked, a most peculiar mixture of dread and spirited excitement overcoming me at the prospect. "We're in so much trouble."

Ron glanced at me, grinning. "We're already in trouble."

I nodded, smiling broadly, as well. We weren't really the picture perfect example of a couple of sneaky Slytherins – whatever that notion was even supposed to mean. None of the Slytherins we'd met so far seemed concerned about anything other than their homework, Quidditch, girls, boys – or whatever mundane things most children worried about.

Most of them, according to Ron, who had heard quite a few tales of Hogwarts from his brothers, seemed to act much the same way as the students of the other houses. Funnily enough, it turned out children would be children, even if they were sorted into Slytherin.

They were young witches and wizards trying to find their place in this world of ours. Which, I suppose, was what Ron and I were trying, too.

Stopping at the corner of a corridor, I quickly glanced round it to look for any patrolling teachers, in case they did such a thing at Hogwarts. There were none, however, and, nodding quickly to Ron, I made a dash as hurriedly yet quietly as I could across the corridor.

When we reached the third-floor, looking at a very specific door, I couldn't help but ponder on the Headmaster, Dumbledore, and his words at the opening feast.

Painful death.

 _"_ _And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."_

I wasn't sure if I found Dumbledore inexplicably awesome or just barmy.

Maybe bit of both.

Surely, though, no such drastic matters happened within a _school_. But I knew, even as the thought slivered through me, that it was an idea fostered by my muggle-upbringing. None of the Slytherins, including Ron, had given much thought to the statement, finding it – perhaps – even unworthy of consideration.

Was death just a trivial thing, then, in the Wizarding World? Somehow, from what little I'd been able to discern of the past, of He Who Must Not Be Named, and of the occurrences back then during the war, wizards took death just as seriously as muggles.

That meant magic held no power over death, right? Right. Even magic had limits. Death was the end. Final. The end.

Thinking of my parents, the inescapable conclusion made me fell heavy all of a sudden. When I first found out about magic there had been an irrational idea of hope. Now, however… now. Yeah, now.

Thoughts too vast and too intricate for a young mind such as mine filled me, consumed me…

"He's not here yet," Ron mused thoughtfully, breaking my inwardly journey of thoughts and ideas of death.

 _Such dreary thoughts you shroud yourself in, my boy_.

I brushed the thought off my mind, checked my watch, then sighed.

"Maybe he won't show up?"

"Oh, he will," Ron said, giving me a strange look. "We did basically announce it to everyone in our year, remember? He doesn't want to lose face against us."

There was a longing in my heart I didn't quite manage to mask. I _wanted_ this. Wanted Malfoy to show up so that I could defeat him as soundly as possible. For Ron had, in fact, been right. We needed some kind of recognition within our house, something of importance that could grant us a measure of leeway and leniency within the house. Defeating Malfoy could serve as an immense catalyst for that.

And then there was the fact that I wanted to wipe Malfoy's arse with that stupid smirk of his.

It was in the latter thought I found most nobility.

But still, mingled with my thrill of excitement, was a hefty dollop of apprehension. Yes, in the few classes we'd had so far, I'd proven far superior to Malfoy – to everyone, in fact. But that was in a classroom, a setting where you were protected, where you had all the time in the world to succeed. This was a _duel_. A professional duellist needed a second in the event of his death! Merlin – but there was a duality of emotions, brooding and unseen, to be found in that. In the idea of a duel.

A midnight duel.

Well, it was after midnight now.

At last, footsteps could be heard from outside the Trophy Room. Ron and I scuttled behind a row of trophies, hiding. Waiting. Wands raised and at the ready.

Draco Malfoy, as ever flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, strode into the room, looking as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Something was wrong. Dead wrong. Looking at Malfoy, I knew it immediately.

I gestured for Ron to stay put and revealed myself to Malfoy. Crabbe was the first to notice me, pricking on Malfoy's shoulder and pointing to me when he had his attention.

"Oh – you came, Potter," he sneered, the gleam of barely-concealed confidence brimming in his eyes. That same feeling of wrongness grew stronger, the feeling of a faulty presumption made with an adolescent's lack of knowledge of the human condition. I'd thought Malfoy would be fair; it had never occurred to me that he'd cheat his way to victory.

 _Stupid. You stupid, stupid_ idiot. What was he up to?

"Final ready to face your betters, I see," he continued, twirling his wand lazily. "After tonight, the whole school will know of your failure. Know you for what you truly are – a _fraud_!"

I did not respond, too absorbed with things I couldn't perceive.

Malfoy, smirking, glanced back towards the entrance as if making sure we were in the clear to proceed.

I followed his eyes, though, for something seemed so very wrong. He hadn't been this confident in the corridor just this morning – there had been fear, uncertainty, in his eyes back then.

There was none now. It was like he knew something I didn't.

Subtly, and non-verbally, a flicker of lightless magic manifested before me, born out of intent and will, siphoned from the tip of my wand.

None of my housemates before me noticed my magic. Ron did. Knowing what to look for, instinctually knowing that something was going to happen soon, I felt him inch round our foes, rounding them and flanking the entrance.

A shadow fell over the entrance of the room as someone appeared at the threshold. The streaks of moonlight coming from the high-placed windows illuminated the figure and I recognized him instantaneously.

Marcus Flint, intoning an indiscernible incantation, leaped forth into the room, a jet of cursed light I didn't recognize leaving his wand. It struck my shield with blinking-quick pace, shimmered with suspended magic, and bounded towards Crabbe, who threw himself to the floor in an impressive act of surprised self-preservation.

My shield held on strong through the battering, as Ron, roaring needlessly but awesomely, flung himself over a particular set of impressive trophies, knocking them down with a clatter and shatter of broken glass, and jabbed his wand at Marcus Flint.

" _PERTIFICUS TOTALUS_!"

Flint, terrified by Ron's sudden and loud appearance, never even manage to lift his wand to defend himself.

There was a dull thud as the stiff form of Marcus Flint hit the floor, and then there was utter silence, five wands pointed at each other.

Ron, wand steady and stance crouched defensively, circled round our three foes to my side, coming to stand in the protective reach of my magic.

He was _grinning_ with exhilaration. Madly so.

I, too, was grinning like a loon.

"I think, Malfoy, you should have chosen a more competent fifth-year student."

By the easily seen look of fear and rage that now marred Malfoy's features, I knew this duel had turned into a fight. Good. I never really got the point of turning your back to your opponent and pacing away, even if Ron vehemently tried to defend its values.

This felt purer, somehow. More real.

"You knew, didn't you, Malfoy?" Ron taunted loudly, taking a crouched stance face-to-face with Goyle, wand at the ready. "You knew you were no match for Harry. You knew you needed to cheat like the little coward-"

Malfoy, bellowing his rage, stepped forwards, leaving the vicinity of his friends as he drew head-on with me.

" _Flipendo_!" he cried.

The spell, even as it left his wand, sparked a moment of recognition with me as I recalled it. It was one of the spells we'd written down but deemed unnecessary to learn. For now, that was.

It flipped off my shield and, guided by instinct and natural ability, I directed it back at Malfoy who, eyes widening comically, leaped out of the way.

It struck Crabbe, then, who was unable to escape a second time, and sent him lurching and screaming head-over-heels half-across the room.

Malfoy swore.

Ron whooped.

Goyle only looked dumbfounded, looking around as if hoping to understand just what made their spells volley back towards them.

I watched the trajectory of the spell with careful scrutiny, where it had just travelled, my mouth opening slightly in wonder. Again, like flying on a broom, I hadn't known you could direct the deflected spells in the direction you wanted, until I did it.

It just… made sense in the moment.

Malfoy, lying prone on the floor, raised his wand again.

" _Locomotor Mortis_!"

A jet of purple light shot out of his wand, sizzling through the air with immense speed, and – as I instinctually dived for the ground – shattered my shield at last.

The Leg-Locking Curse, I thought, as I tucked on the floor, gaining my feet an instant later, my wand spinning back towards Malfoy, who still lay on the floor.

 _Expelliarmus_!

My wand-movement was precise and my intent clear, and a crimson jet soared from the tip of my wand. But my aim was off by millimetres, and Malfoy scrambled to his feet.

"What are you waiting for!" he screamed at Goyle, gesturing at Ron. "GET HIM!"

Ron, sensing the danger, quickly brought his wand towards the larger boy that bore down on him, sending a quick Body-Bind Curse.

The spell missed by little more than a foot, and I was painfully reminded that there was more to duelling than simply performing spells as Ron got tackled to the ground, his wand leaving his grasp, followed by a pained grunt from Ron.

The fight turned messy – Ron yelped, and panic seized my body. Goyle was by no means a talented wizard, but he had size on his side, and Ron would be dispatched in moments unless I did something.

Something drastic. Something daring.

Oh, yeah, I wanted this.

A thought. So simple. Yet thoughts, like ideas, possess the power to change the way we perceive the world around us, the way we perceive ourselves.

It was with one such thought that I sent a spell with terrible accuracy, striking Malfoy in the area of his ribcage, where his abdomen met his chest – just as any textbook of duelling would have you do.

Thoughts can kill; thoughts can put a stopper on death. Thoughts can lay claim to your sanity. Thoughts can slay innocence in the blink of an unforgiving minute.

This thought – oh, this thought – would _haunt_ me.

The sickly yellow light struck Malfoy barely a second after Ron and Goyle started their brawl, and immediately we both _knew_ something was wrong.

He started heaving; he grasped for air like a fish for water, and found none. Panic grabbed hold of his countenance. "Goyle – Goyle, help!" he rasped, his voice faint.

Goyle stopped his fight as he registered Malfoy's voice, and I sent a Body-Bind Curse at the large boy on pure instinct, effectively stunning him but leaving him with his senses intact so that he could hear Malfoy's suffering. Right there I wish I'd known a true Stunning Charm. Just to spare him having to hear his friend's horrific fear.

"Potter – please… DON'T!"

Ron, nose broken and right-eye brushing and dark-purple, pushed himself to his feet with a grunt and looked at Malfoy, sickly fascination etched into his eyes. The fun of the spell, and the thought of it had been fun, I realized, seemed so very far away now – when reality hit home with a vengeance.

He suffocated before us. Falling to the ground as his bodily functions faulted him. And for a terrible moment of stillness, where a heart beats and a breath catches, I thought I'd killed the boy.

But then at last the pale boy, now raw-red with anxiety and lack of air, fell unconscious and his chest rose as he subconsciously drew in an enormous amount of air.

Sounds reached my ears, but they refused to make sense. Only when the persistent tugging on my sleeve became a painful pinch on my arm did I register Ron speaking.

"We should leave. Harry – we must leave. Now!"

I nodded dumbly, following Ron with a blank mind and a battered consciousness. Malfoy would wake up, unharmed and well, as would his friends. Hell, from the looks of it, it was Ron who had suffered the most…

But it looked so _painful_. And scary. And it would leave scars. Unseen. Indiscernible. But still very much there. Raw.

And I realized that magic was wondrous. But it was also terrifying – what it could enable young boys to do. What I could wrought with a wand.

Ron, who had been tugging me along, stopped and swore with a whisper-thin voice, all of a sudden growing rigid beside me.

I raised my eyes, not carrying the least, and then found a measure of dumb will through sheer fright to care anyway.

Severus Snape, cloak billowing dangerously, stalked towards us, furious. Livid. Behind him, limping and hurt but very much awake, was Crabbe, who must have escaped without us noticing. Neither Ron nor I ever took the time to bind him, I realized.

Shit, shit, shit!

Shit.

We'd been caught.


	2. Trophies and Dogs

**Disclaimer:** None of this is mine.

 **A/N:** Nothing much to say. Thanks to those that reviewed and favoured the first chapter.

Let's get to it.

* * *

 **Trophies and Dogs**

The scene I found myself in would be considered most bizarre, if I'd been of a keen enough mind to pay attention to such things at the time.

Ron stood beside me, bleeding from his nose and mouth onto the floor of the Headmaster's office. He looked ready to fight. Rave. Rage. And in a way it was all for me. Had been for me. The blood. The countenance. Every last bit of his defiance.

Loyalty was a blessed thing, though we often realize that too late. Or maybe that's just me. I should have realized back then that he'd walk with me into the fires of hell and back.

Dumbledore, taking one look at the boy, had set his nose straight with a wave of his wand. It did little to conceal the terrible look in Ron's eyes, amplified by the sputter of blood that had dripped onto his robes and the whiteness of his skin.

He looked like a corpse walking. Nothing like the usual demeanour of the eleven-year-old boy he was.

This, I felt, was serious.

Behind us, ready to yank us by our throats into submission should we prove defiant, stood the still-livid Snape, his breath hot and terrifying on our necks.

Off to the side – with Marcus Flint acting as a silent, dumbfounded spectator in between – stood Crabbe and Goyle, supporting a whimpering Draco Malfoy that had just been awoken to stand trial – or act as witness, I suppose.

Snape had been busy, building a case against Ron and me, although mainly me.

"He's a danger to the rest of the students, Headmaster," he said, voice barely above a whisper. There was intent in his eyes, passion. _Hatred_. Why did he hate me so? "Barely more than a week into school and already he's stepped into his father's shadow. You cannot keep him here. Not in good conscious."

Dumbledore, who had been paying nothing but polite attention to Snape, now looked at me. Really, really looked at me. Searching. There was a gleam of honest, good-natured curiosity, but it was far outweighed by something else. Something powerful, something magical. Then he looked back at Snape with that same polite attention, motioning with his hand for him to continue.

"And what, Severus, do you recommend? Harry and Mr Weasley are, after all, students of your house."

Snape breathed – with _pleasure_. "Expulsion would be the appropriate response."

"You can't be serious!" Ron cried, red-hot fury blinding his sense of self-preservation in a moment of madness. "It was Malfoy who sta-"

"Ten points…" Snape cut in silkily, somehow breaking Ron's train of words apart, "from Slytherin, Mr Weasley."

Okay. I swallowed dry, stale air. Okay. I didn't think anyone could have ever concocted a situation where Snape would relish the opportunity to take off house-points from Slytherin.

The game had changed. No certainties, it seemed, were left.

"A clear disregard for authority," Snape continued, "a penchant for rule-breaking… cursing students, putting them on verge of death-"

"I did no such thing!" I said, before I could stop my thought-process. This was a fuckin' train wreck still in motion. "Malfoy was never in _any_ danger – the spell-"

"Shut _up_ , Potter!" Snape snarled, and I shut my mouth as if he'd spelled it so, wide-eyed. There had been utter, _utter_ malice in his voice. Like he'd wanted nothing more than to see me gone from the face of the Earth. Like I was but a mere reminder of something he'd rather pretend didn't exist. Something stung in the back of my eyes, and I found myself, to my horror, fighting tears from breaking free.

"As I was saying…" Snape gave me one last look; he wore a peculiar sort of smile. Satisfaction. Relish. I don't know what; I couldn't stand looking at him. "A clear disregard for authority. I cannot tolerate such behaviour from one of _my_ students. I demand him banished from Hogwarts. Indefinitely."

There was a silence. It stretched ominously into a soundless scream of noise… and then someone broke the spell and _huffed_ with indignation.

"Really, Severus, the boy has barely been here a week and already you've made yourself judge, jury and executioner of the boy's fate. Do the agony of the past truly cut so deep?"

"You shouldn't speak of things you don't understand, Minerva."

"Someone has to speak sense here."

"You have no part in this."

McGonagall stepped up beside me, dragging a slightly confused and deeply mortified Neville Longbottom with her; why the Gryffindor of our year was even here I couldn't fathom. But the turn of the conversation coloured me intrigued. _The agony of the past_ sounded deliciously mysterious.

"Have you even seen him perform a piece of magic, Severus? Do you have any idea what kind of talent your house is sitting on?" She gestured to Dumbledore, who just sat there, inquisitive and nonchalant, staring at the proceedings happening in his office like it was an everyday occurrence. Like he'd been sitting there all day waiting for this. "That kind of talent, Snape… _That_ … kind."

She was pointing straight at Dumbledore.

Snape almost – _almost_ – blanched at the notion.

"Surely, you can't mean-"

"I do. Have you even seen him holding a wand? He holds it like he's done it for _decades_. You know how most children are with a wand. Like a toddler trying to run before learning to walk. He's not just gifted, Severus. He possess a natural affinity I've only seen in one other student… Fifty years ago. You're aware of whom I'm referring to, of course."

Snape nodded. Intrigued. And, if my eyes didn't deceive me, _afraid_. Just the smallest measure revealed.

Fear.

Fear.

What fear?

Fear of what? Of whom?

"You can't keep him from magic…" She cast her eyes briefly, tentatively, at Dumbledore. "Just as we couldn't have kept _him_ away…"

Snape found his composure.

"So according to you, a remarkable propensity for Transfiguration and curses is adequate justification for putting another student's life at risk?"

"We're here to teach! Not judge on the feuds of first year students."

"They must learn that their actions has consequences!"

"Yes, but not unreasonably so!" McGonagall, and she must have found it strange to be defending a Slytherin against Snape, wore a mixture of shock and anger in her eyes. "By your standards, you yourself wouldn't have made it past your first year! Or have you forgotten what you were like? We can't predict the future. What our students will become. We can only guide them in this moment. In this school."

"Enough."

The voice, oh so softly spoken, broke the argument asunder. Startled, I turned my eyes to the owner of the voice.

Albus Dumbledore.

I breathed deeply, steadily; I remembered the sense of old magic that had sent tingles down my spine when I'd entered Ollivander's shop.

Dumbledore had just laid claim to the air in much the same manner. Polite. Nonchalant. _Powerful_. There was a poised elegance in the way he held himself, robes deep purple, wand held loosely, delicately, between his gnarled fingers, twirling it absentmindedly. His control – and, yeah, he was in control – was immaculately wielded and clear to everyone in the room.

Or it should have been, I thought.

Snape must have been a particular arrogant fool, for he dared to speak up in that moment, speak up against this wizard.

"Headmaster." He cast a loathly eye my way, but I'd found strength in Dumbledore's interference and glared back. "Potter nearly killed Mr Malfoy, suffocating him – at least it will be perceived that way by… outside forces. Failing to respond – with any kind of response – will leave you open to… _counter-measures_."

Counter-measures?

"Your concern warms my heart, Severus," Dumbledore said unconcernedly. "But let me concern myself about the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Harry and Mr Malfoy's altercation, though upsetting, of course, is hardly something worthy of greater scrutiny."

Ron's eyes boggled beside me, masking none of his disbelief. I managed, impossibly, to keep my show of incredulity to a minimum.

Snape wasn't so easily cowered, though.

"Headmaster, I implore you, Potter deserves-"

"I cannot nor will I ever agree to the expulsion of first-year students for something as banal as an occurrence of magical misadventures – young student, as you're aware of, Severus, has been known to find their powers… unpredictable, when provoked."

Snape looked beyond reason, beyond fury, beyond all thoughts of rationale. His skin had grown a sickly pale, contrasting fetidly with his dirty black hair.

" _Misadventures_? The spell Potter used was entirely deliberate; it was premeditated use of a dangerous curse that, if butchered, could have had far more lasting effects than what it did."

"Which I am sure will be chiefly upon Harry's mind the next time he discovers an enticing new bit of magic." Dumbledore peered at me over his half-moon glass. I had the feeling he was seeing right through me, skimming through all that I ever was and all that I'd ever be. I could merely nod in response. "Good. Very good. See, Severus, without the Headmaster's approval, no student of Hogwarts can be expelled. And I assure you, on this matter you do not have my consent. Mistakes are an inevitable part of growing up. And from those mistakes we must encourage growth of character."

I had a feeling that if you were not on the right side of Dumbledore's sight, he could be really annoying. Bordering on condescending. At this moment, I was mighty fond of him.

"You… you won't assign any… any kind of punishment, then." There was resignation in Snape's eyes. But there was also defiance. The latter I found troubling.

"On the contrary," Dumbledore began, voice light, though the mask he wore on his face was anything but good-natured. "Events of this night – events that I perhaps should have foreseen – have lent a light with which we might decipher the future. No actions taken in this moment would resolve in a very bleak future, I think. I've had a couple of our house-elves prepare a new dormitory for Mr Weasley and Harry."

"You have _what_?" It was McGonagall that had spoken; Snape, in a stupor of what looked like sheer shock, seemed incapable of articulation.

"One of the room used for the housing of muggleborns in the past."

Ron looked like Christmas had come months too early.

Snape – well, Snape found his voice.

"You… that – you cannot do that! That's not punishment! The boy's delinquency must be punished. Headmaster!" It seemed Snape was making one final mad pursuit in what he called justice. "Skipping classes! Leaving books sprawled all over the library!"

I must admit I winced a little at every point of our long list of mishaps. And to think we'd only been at it for half-a-day.

"Roaming the castle in the middle of the night! Instigating duels! Harming students! Lying! Cursing!"

"I would have thought that you, Severus, of all people would understand just what kind of punishment forced isolation can be. Believe me, this is not something I do lightly. But I feel actions to the contrary – or no actions at all – would be a grave error of judgement on my behalf. Unless, of course…" He turned his eyes on the four Slytherins off to the side of the office, standing below a long row of past Headmasters. "Is it your wish, Mr Malfoy, to continue to share a dormitory with Harry and Mr Weasley?"

Malfoy, sickly pale, shook his head negatively. Frantically. "No – sir…" It looked like there was more on his mind, but the words eluded him.

Dumbledore beamed.

"Ah! Very good! Very good indeed." The jovial tone of the Headmaster's voice, coupled with Malfoy's sickly confusion, almost had me laughing outright. "One of the rooms that served the muggleborns of the past will be made inhabitable at once." He turned to Ron and I. "Your belongings, I imagine, will have been relocated upon your return."

Snape, one last acidly livid look at Dumbledore, then at me, turned about and made for the staircase, gathering Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and Flint on the way with a rough motion of his arm. Ushering them out, he stopped on the threshold and looked back.

"A hundred points will be taken from Slytherin."

"A hundred!" Ron repeated hollowly. I felt punched to the gut; we'd be shunned in our house for good if they found out we'd cost them a hundred points. "That would put us below zero…"

"A hundred points – from _each_ of you." Snape smirked cruelly, and it was perhaps the closest thing to a snake's smile I'd ever seen. Malevolent. Acrid. Filled with dark pleasure. A terrible, vindictive smile. "And I think a bulletin will be placed in the common room, stating who's to blame and why… just to clear any confusion that might arise."

Shunned? No. We were dead.

And then Snape, with one last smirk, left us to our silence, claiming victory in the end.

Dumbledore looked sorrowful for a moment, but when he spoke, his voice was steadfast but not unkind.

"I think it wise, Mr Weasley, Harry, should you wish not to attend classes tomorrow that you perhaps might take the day off. Have a lie in as they say. You have my permission."

Ron, palsy white, stayed silent, looking at the floor as if committing its every detail to memory.

"Thank you, professor," I muttered, unable to look at anybody in the room. It wasn't even because I was particularly filled with guilt. Dread. Yes, dread took up a good chunk of my being, dread of the future for obvious reasons, but that wasn't it, either.

It was that there was just… nothing there. At all. The stress and the adrenaline that came with the night had left me. There was nothing left to feel, preparing for the duel, practicing curses and shields, duelling Malfoy, the horror of – fuck the horror! – of seeing Malfoy falling, falling, falling… Snape finding us, yanking us along the darkened corridors by invisible ropes with his wand, finding us under the judgemental eyes of what seemed like hundreds of paintings in the _Headmaster's_ office.

The Headmaster's office!

I was drained, completely knackered. Spent.

"Good, good." Dumbledore turned to McGonagall and Longbottom – I breathed a sigh of relief as the attention of the room shifted – and watched as Longbottom became quite still, looking like he was waiting for the right moment to make his escape. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr Longbottom, that you had to witness this spectacle. Severus can be a… proud man at times. What are you business here?"

"I – I – slept, sir," he stammered.

"Sorry?" Dumbledore said, slightly confused. "You slept? Seems perfectly natural given the hour, my boy."

"No, I – I forgot the password…"

Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling merrily, turned to McGonagall.

She was brisk and to the point. Not at all amused.

"I caught the boy sleeping in corridor outside the Gryffindor common room. Apparently he forgot the password after being released from the Hospital Wing earlier this evening."

Ron tried gallantly to hide his cackles, choking it in his mouth. Everybody heard him; Neville deflated in on himself.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Ah yes – forgetfulness happens to us all, I fear. Why, there was once a time where I could have sworn my robes-"

" _Professor Dumbledore_!" McGonagall cried, wide-eyed, covering at Neville's ears.

My curiosity thwarted my dread, but it seemed Dumbledore remembered himself. Blinking, he looked round his office as if unsure what was wrong.

"Inappropriate audience?"

"Yes – by Merlin…"

Ron and I shared a look, and I was happy to find I wasn't the only one who seemed to have missed whatever it was McGonagall seethed at.

"Very well," Dumbledore said. He turned to me, serious all of a sudden. "I imagine professor Snape's gone by now, Harry. If I may leave you with a parting advise, I'd recommend you head straight to your common room. Please do not stray off course any further tonight and stay out of trouble."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir – thank you."

Dumbledore nodded, then turned to Neville. "All right, Mr Longbottom. Let's see if we…"

Ron and I left in silence, walking the halls and corridors of this magical place with raw exhaustion. It had been a long night, as mentioned; the clock was well-beyond two closing in on three, and in a few hours the castle would be bustling with renewed life.

Moonlight dressed Hogwarts up all prettily, caressing her elderly corridors with a soft touch, but my adolescent mind found no wonder and awe forthcoming as I skipped past the Entrance Hall, heading towards the staircase that would lead us to the Dungeons.

"Potter! Weasley!"

Ron, groaning, turned to behold the person approaching us. When we recognized the person, Ron was caught by a mild dose of giggles again, the strange tale of misfortune still faintly amusing.

Neville Longbottom came to a halt before us, slightly out of breath from his run.

"Did you get the password, then?" I reached for a compassionate tone of voice, but found only tired amusement. Neville ducked in embarrassment, but I was too damn weary to care.

"Is – is it true?" Neville stammered, ignoring my question.

"You'd have to be more specific, mate?" Ron drawled, leaning against the railing of the marble staircase.

"Did you really… duel with Malfoy?"

"And his goons and Flint, yes," Ron said with an indifferent tone of voice one would only use if they tried to play nonchalant about something they were immensely proud about. "But one could hardly call it a duel."

Neville, indecision clear in his features, finally cracked and slammed himself into Ron, who was nearest, hugging him.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

I blinked, surprised, then snickered at Ron's gobsmacked expression. I knew Malfoy had been especially vicious towards Longbottom, but this response alluded to something more vicious that might have happened between the two.

"Yeah, eh, mate – could you let go now?"

He leaped off Ron as if he'd caught fire, his face crimson. Ron looked sort of odd, his face caught in contemplation.

I wanted to see my bed.

"Look, I'm sorry – Longbottom, was it?" He nodded in response. "Right. Look, we're in enough trouble as it is – as you no doubt realize – and we need to get back to our common room. Tomorrow – god, Ron-" I turned to Ron, sharing my dread with my eyes as I began walking off, "-tomorrow's gonna be absolute _hell_!"

"Goodnight, Longbottom," Ron said, following me as I'd already left Neville behind. "Say hi to my brothers, will you?"

"Yes. I will. Thank you. And thank you! Please, if you ever need…"

We descended the stairs and left behind the remnants of Longbottom sentences in the cold moonlight of the ground-floor. Down here, in the dark, where corridors became dungeons, where the air grew stale and dank, where only torches of fiery light illuminated our path in a stark contrast of trembling shadows, we found the path leading home. And soon we found ourselves in front of an inconspicuous black stonewall – the contents of which were strictly forbidden for anyone not a member of the Slytherin house.

"Pureblood," Ron announced to it, looking to the heavens above with disgust. "As if that'd be hard to guess. They might as well put up a sign, saying – wait, Fred and George!"

"What about them?" I asked.

"I dunno. I think I've got a plan."

Ron looked to be scheming and I didn't inquire, and together we entered the common room. It was, I admit, a rather grand place, if not with a slightly malicious nature. It was a lengthy, underground room consistent of stonewalls and ceiling, from which there hung round lamps illuminating the room with a dark greenish colour.

At the end of the corridor there was a fireplace in which a fire crackled merrily despite the gloomy surroundings. Above it, elaborately cut, hung a mantelpiece with a meticulous painting of a snake adorning it. In its eye were an emerald that shone with an inner-light.

On either side of the mantelpiece were two double-clipped corner windows that favoured us with a view of the lake from beneath its surface. Through the one on the left you could see what looked like an underwater cave outside our dormitory, a black hole of a mouth swallowing light and water pointing directly at the windows.

Ron and I had already discussed what it might be and ways in which we could dive down and explore it; we imagined there must be endless ways with magic.

For now it stayed just a fine thought.

The fine-cut and deeply uncomfortable chairs that littered the floor of the common room were all vacated. I wondered, casting a glance at the only painting of our common room, off to the left-hand side, opposite the direction of the boys and girls dormitories, if Malfoy and his friends had already been through here.

My eyes stayed on the painting, fascinated. It moved, of course, all paintings of Hogwarts did, but this one not so much. It never spoke. It depicted a very pale, very ugly old man with a faint, thin white beard that reached the man's waist and a balding scalp.

Rumour had it that this was Salazar Slytherin himself. What became of him before his death. Ron and I agreed that it was a preposterous thought, but had nonetheless vowed to find a curse that could burn through its protective charms one day – you know, just for educational purposes, of course.

"Oi!"

I turned to Ron's surprised gasp. There stood a little creature upon one of the chairs, a house-elf, and waited expectantly for our attention.

"I am to take Mr Weasley and Mr Harry Potter to their dormitory," it said with a clipped edge. Professional. Nothing alike the ones I'd met a couple of hours earlier in the kitchen.

I smiled, tired. This day was, at last, nearing its end.

"Thank you, little guy."

* * *

"Dumbledore's…"

"Awesome," Ron breathed, awed, "And barmy, of course. But totally awesome."

We were lying in our beds. Our dormitory, judging by the view offered by the only window in the room, was a couple of floors higher than the common room. Which I thought a bit strange when you considered the fact that we'd _descended_ stairs to reach it. It was like we were a part of a rickety, underwater turret, for I could even see the twin windows of the common room a little ways down, off to the side, a flickering, fiery light pulsing through the glass.

Our room was rather sparse. We had two beds, both of which had green and silver silk hangings. A small bedside table, on which Ron had placed his wand and I had placed my glasses, stood in between our beds. A small, oval mirror, just big enough to reflect a single eye, surmounted the bedside table. Small Slytherin crests and snake-like markings beset the grey walls. Ron had already declared that we needed to find a way to change that, to _liven_ up the place.

I quite agreed, considering we had to spend the next seven years here, but right now I just wanted to sleep. And yet I couldn't; there was something about the room, the legacy of it, which deeply nagged at me.

"Ron – what did Dumbledore mean when he described this as one of the _muggleborn rooms_?"

Ron sighed, shifting in his bed to look at me. "I dunno. Or I hope I don't know, I guess. I have an idea."

"What?"

"You have to understand…" Ron began, then paused, searching for the words. "The Pureblood bigotry isn't a great part of our history. It wasn't until the last fifty years or so it really – how did my dad explain it? – grabbed hold in the general population, even more so when You-Know-Who came into power. Purebloods saw it as an easy way to gain favours and power in our society… I don't know; I think that's how my dad said it."

Ron paused, gathering his thoughts; there was a lot to make sense of.

"During the war with You-Know-Who, muggleborns weren't exactly welcome in Slytherin – for obvious reasons. If muggleborns have a hard time today here – and most of them do, we now know – then imagine how they must have had it back when everything was going on." Ron glanced around the room. "I think Dumbledore would have made these rooms to protect them from their housemates. Bill said the rumours of their treatment still ran around while he went to Hogwarts. Rumours about how muggleborns were treated back then." Ron actually shuddered at the thought. "It wasn't pretty. Nothing were back then."

"So even Hogwarts was involved in the war with Vol – sorry, Ron! – with You-Know-Who?

Ron nodded. "Everybody were in some ways from what I hear. You might not like the way people look at you, and I understand – I _really_ do – but there's a reason they look at you the way they do. You changed their lives. You changed all our lives. You saved us. To those that fought against _him_ , my dad says you'll always hold a special place in their hearts. Gratitude, he calls it."

Later that night, when sleep found Ron a willing victim, I laid in bed, staring at my wand, recalling with the kind of perfect clarity only regret can bring along, what with this stick of wood I could wrought.

Was I awed? Yes. Was I afraid? Yes, though not as much as I should have been. The thing about a young mind is that it's almost never capable of imagining all the ways in which it can corrupt itself.

And I was corruptible. Susceptible.

Magic was capable of greatness. And as I recalled Ollivander's words when I purchased my wand, when I contemplated the strange sorting I'd partaken, I understood that I, because of magic, was in possession of that same capacity for greatness.

And, shit, but that scared me. I'd never even considered being great – never even considered pursuing it – when I first received my letter from Hagrid. When I met Ron, a weight had fallen from my shoulder and it was like all I could have asked for had already been given me.

But now…

Malfoy, trembling under my wand…

Oh. Well.

The world would still stand tomorrow.

The sun would rise.

Malfoy was gonna be fine.

Damn it.

I yielded.

Barely perceptible disgust filled me as I gave in to the deeper emotion that was there… in my hearts of heart… the one I'd locked away until now… fascination. _Satisfaction_. There was a power in that show of skilled dominance. A raw power I had enjoyed wielding – in the face of Malfoy and his friends, my skills were unequalled.

 _Albus Dumbledore._

A sigh. Damn it all to hell.

And now I laid there, in my new bed, in my new home, wondering if Dumbledore had seen through the insecurity to the more sinister emotion breeding just beneath the surface. The enjoyment.

No, I told myself, gripping my wand tightly and turning over in my bed, the fact of the matter remained. As it must. I didn't _enjoy_ it. I didn't! There was no real gratification from my enjoyment – no catharsis of emotions.

But there was understanding.

I was alone. Beset, it seemed, on all sides. By Snape. By Malfoy. The only people that had shown me any kind of good will, and that had been limited, were people from other houses. Friendliness? Hardly. Eagerness. Yes. Curiousness? Yeah. There had been a lot of that – a lot of craned looks around corners. But that was _not_ strange, given the impossibility of my past.

Scholars had written books of theories about that night, about _me_ , about what in particular that set me so apart. What made my existence beyond the age of one a possibility? No concrete answer, as far as I could gather, had arisen in any research. How they'd made their research without ever consoling me was beyond me, but that wasn't a thought worth chasing at the moment.

Of course! Of course I was gonna be looked upon differently. I _was_ different. How had I survived, when my parents had died, like so many before them, to Voldemort's wand?

And there came a certain expectancy with my past, with my fame. When I'd performed well in class, outmatching everybody with an ease that both frighten and exhilarated me, people only looked on like it was something they had expected all along. Envious expectancy.

I was, however, wrong about one thing. As the snores reminded me, I wasn't alone anymore.

I had Ron.

Sighing, I ducked into my bag and fished out my list of _Duel Spells_ , knowing that sleep wouldn't find me for quite a while.

Twirling my wand, a light bursting at the tip, I skimmed the pages.

* * *

As Dumbledore requested, I slept in. As did Ron.

Blessedly, none came to wake us up. Most likely because no one knew where to find us.

I swung my legs out of my bed, grabbed my glasses, and went to the loo.

My memories of yesterday seemed befuddled, coming to me like they belonged to another mind. There was a distorted sequence of events, all of it muddled into one large package of misdeeds. Discerning one episode from another was a daunting task. So much had happened.

Oh, and there was also a crack in the mirror. Staring into the face of an eleven-year-old Harry Potter, a crack broke my face into two elongated faces, lower and upper, jaw and forehead, comically stretched.

"Ron!" I shouted, noting I'd left the door ajar. My wand was pointing at the mirror, awaiting the information from Ron. "How do you repair things?"

There was an eloquent groan coming from the dormitory.

"Merlin – what time is it?"

"Late."

"Ah – bloody hell, Harry, I don't remember. I'm sure it makes sense once you hear it, though."

I furrowed my brow, wacked the mirror with my wand and intoned, "Repair."

Nothing.

I sighed, pausing in my train of thoughts. Repairing. Mending. I considered the broken glass in front of me. Considered its function, its shape… Gliding my hand over it, I even considered the feel of it.

At the best of times, magic could be damn intricate. Spells were meant to aid the wizard or witch, focusing their intent into a concrete result, making a focal point for our wills to bend reality. But even in my younger days, I instinctually knew that magic wasn't so intricate, and it wasn't so simple, and that it was not merely tied down to knowing the right spell for the job.

And if that doesn't confuse you, then you're either smarter than me, lying to yourself, or not paying attention.

Bear with me. Please. Magic leaves a print. A trace. A feeling you can pursue with the right frame of mind. That frame of mind, though, a state of non-being, casting your mind beyond this realm, is impossible for most to obtain. You cannot train your mind for this type of clarity. Not in any way I know. Some grows into it; some are born into it.

Most never even touch it.

I _understood_. I – was? Were? _Am_.

I am magic. As is everything. As is nothing.

You see?

I held my wand, tightly now, considered it. There was a perceptible response coming off it, answering my silent deliberation. Warmth travelled up the length of my arm. Magic rendered my senses. Laid claim to reality, bended it.

Mended it. _Mending_. To mend.

I looked back into my split reflection, seeing – imagining – myself looking back whole, looking back mended. The warmth still tingled about my arm, and I knew I had it.

I had it.

I gestured with my wand, _knowing_ I had. There was a fine, distinct sound – _crack!_ – and staring back at me was the whole face of Harry James Potter, grinning with wonder. Like an eleven-year-old boy was supposed to.

"Oh, you remembered the spell."

No. "Yeah."

Ron stood in the doorway, dishevelled, scratching the back of his head without making any attempt to stifle his yawn. He stretched, something cracked, then he took to the room.

"What was it?"

Ah…

"What was what?"

"The spell, Harry." Ron looked at me, frowned, gesturing to the mirror. "You know, the mirror – the spell to fix it."

I cast my mind about the billion of explanations, the hundreds of spells I'd already heard and barely remembered. I was sure I'd heard of it before. It was right there…

"You didn't remember it, did you?"

"Well – it sounds stupid when you put it like that."

"How then?"

"I'm not sure."

We brushed our teeth, dressed in normal clothes – not a school day for these boys, no sir – and Ron spent a minute teaching me a charm that could tie your shoelaces. Apparently it was one of the few spells Ron's mother had taught him during his youth.

"Mum never practiced much with Ginny and I," Ron explained. "Not magic, anyhow. Hell, you remember the train ride? Had I known just a little I'd have figured the twins were having me on…"

We sneaked out of our dormitory, finding the common room fortunately still and lonely. A bulletin, as Snape promised, hung by the exit, explaining how Ron Weasley and Harry Potter had been caught out after curfew, getting into all sorts of trouble.

"Let's get out of here before anyone return," Ron said, shuddering as the scenario no doubt ran through his mind.

We sneaked through the castle to the sounds of whispered rumours and glares filled with despise whenever we happened upon the occasional Slytherin.

One particular seventh-year Slytherin was rather articulate about his displeasure.

"This is my last year!" he all but shouted at us. Ron cast a look of pure longing at the door leading out of the Entrance Hall and out onto the grounds. We had been so close.

"My last year! Slytherin has won the cup for the last six years! Ever since I got here! I'll _not_ have that ruined by two fucking first-years who can't… who can't…" He dragged Ron by the collar of his shirt, face-to-face, inches apart. "I've N.E.W.T's to worry about this year. By Merlin! I haven't got the time to hold you by the fuckin' hands! I don't care who the fuck you – the fuck you doing, Potter?"

 _Petrificus Totalus_!

His limps snapped together, stiffly, and he fell back. Only Ron's quick reflexes, arms snatching around the bigger boys waist, ensured that the older boy didn't hit the stone-floor.

"Harry!"

"What?"

Ron stared, wide-eyed and grinning, as he stood up after having laid the boy.

"No duels in the corridors, remember?"

"Well," I said, a blush creeping up my neck. "I never had the means to fight back before…"

"You certainly do now! Bloody hell!"

"Yeah…" I muttered, casting a glance round the commotion my little display of magic had caused. For a school filled with young witches and wizards, who all had a wand capable of all kinds of spells, there really weren't that many that actually dared using magic in the corridors.

The reason why stalked towards us through the sound of mutterings – _God I hated that sound!_ – coming from the opposite end of the corridor.

"Snape!" Ron whispered, straining his neck to look above the students around us. "How the bloody hell can he just _be_ there?"

I was wondering the same thing myself.

"Maybe he's following us."

Ron looked horrified at the thought. "You think so?"

"Not really. I don't think he can see us yet…" I shrugged. There was a strange sense of complacency within me. Snape was like a boulder in a river, pushing students aside with his glare and mere presence, cutting a path straight towards us. It didn't scare me for some reason.

I fixed my eyes on the Entrance Hall, and the sunlight that poured through seemed madly enticing at that moment, urging my defiance.

"Run for it?" I asked Ron.

"Merlin, he'll go absolutely _bonkers_!" There was an exceptional look of mirth and fright on Ron's face, flushed with exuberance.

We laughed and, as if on their own accord, our legs set in motion, sprinting through the groups of students from all houses. They parted for us – I caught faces in the crowd that shuddered with disapproval, faces that stared with shock, with curiosity, some with awe, as if they couldn't fathom that we'd make a dash from Snape.

Most of them cheered. None of them Slytherin.

It felt _good_.

Ron and I laughed as we hit the grounds running.

Blood ran hot in my veins as we cut right, streaking across the grounds. My thigh burned with exertion, our feet heavy in the still dew-covered field of grass. None of that mattered. We defied. We laughed. We _escaped_.

Young and immortality often goes hand-in-hand. At least, the theory of immortality – the feeling that death is this distant concept that cannot reach you. Not that we were in any danger of death presently, but that's the danger of reflection. Memories elude you. They distort your perception of the past.

Oh, how I'd learn…

In the distance, stands of a stadium rose into the air. Our run, quite naturally, slowed to a steady pace as we drew nearer and no one seemed to catch up behind us.

"Should we go for a flight?" Ron asked, and as he said it I knew that we'd been meant to be here. Flying.

"Sure."

We stopped by a broom shack that stood by the Quidditch Entrance, intent upon grabbing ourselves a couple of the school's brooms.

It was locked. Ron swore as he tore at the wooden door.

"Know the charm to unlock doors?"

"Nope."

Ron, unflappable, gestured to the door. "Do you thing?"

I remembered just the spell for this type of thing.

" _Reducto_!"

A jet of blue light, crackling like lightning, spilled out of my wand, striking the door. It blew of its hinges in a cascade of wooden shrapnel, the door incinerated into dust in the twilight of a spell. Ron staggered over the debris, astonished, and grabbed two brooms.

"Or you could do that, I guess." He handed me a broom, hand shaky, casting a wary glance at the wand in my hand. "Reducto, you said?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"Cool…"

We slipped through the Quidditch tunnel, laughing at our success in a rush of juvenile jubilation. Fuck…

You know, there is a… danger. Doing this, I mean. Looking back, examining your past, dwelling on it in a way that it was never meant to be dwelled upon.

What is there to be learned from quiet reflection? It's like Dumbledore and Voldemort told me – the past is the backdrop on which we evolved from, but it does not hold any fundamental power of our future.

 _It does not do to dwell on the past…_

Amen to the wise.

Yet some things we must remember. The good years.

Know – if nothing else – when the good years are upon you… cherish them, celebrate them, remember them as a first love that never stuck – bittersweet and meaningless.

You'll never get them back.

Shit.

The good years came and went away in the blink of a lost guiltlessness.

We reached the end of the tunnel, sunlight flittering like a bellowing curtain ethereally over the threshold. We broke the light and found the Quidditch field occupied.

"Shouldn't you two be in class?" Ron shouted, grinning.

Fred and George twirled on their brooms, seeing us for the first time.

"History," one of them said in lieu of answering. Or maybe that was answer enough. Certainly, Binns had seemed like he'd one day just droned himself to death. "If you're lucky, Binns won't even notice you aren't there. What's your excuse, firsties?"

"Thirsty?"

"Does he remember our names, Fred?" George – I was guessing – said before Ron could answer.

"Binns? Well, Fred, I'm not entirely sure he remembers much of anything on this side of the century."

Or maybe that was Fred.

"Then _how_ , George, should he notice our absence?"

Well, that was – _what_?

"George, I do believe you're on to something."

I looked, incredulous, back and forth between the two, noting Ron was grinning beside me.

No matter.

"So Binns' always like that?" I said. "He never gets more…"

"Lively?"

One of the twins, the one who hadn't answered me, blanched at his brother.

"Ah – poor choice of words there, Fred."

"Really? Discriminatory?"

"Towards a ghost?" I said doubtfully.

"It was a rather obvious and unoriginal pun, Fred." George – _one of them_ – said, completely discarding me.

They could be amusing, I suppose, but I got the feeling I'd rather not spend too much time with them if they were always like that.

"Damn shame you two aren't in Gryffindor," Fred said – _I think_ – half-an-hour later. "We could really use your talents, Harry – you'd be perfect as a seeker! You could even give our brother, Charlie, a run for his money. Some say he could have made it for England, if he wanted to."

"And some say he once got lost in the enthralling eyes of a Hungarian Horntail. Pity that, really."

"And some say you need to shut up!" Ron said.

I, recalling the look McGonagall had favoured me when she caught me flying against Malfoy the other day, trying to take back Longbottom's… whatever it was, spoke of her shared sentiment with the twins.

"Let's just keep this between the two of us, shall we?" she had said, when she'd dragged me to her office. She had given me a long, steady look. "You father was brilliant on a broom, too, you know. And with a wand. My subject was his favourite. I think he'd be proud."

I had hidden my face and my watery eyes as McGonagall, favouring me one last smile, soft and tender, left me unpunished in the hallways.

I think she took pity on me.

For once I couldn't complain about that.

On the way back to the castle, my thoughts ran adrift with the shadow of my parents. Lingering. Whispering. I'd heard bits and pieces of them, not enough to make them corporeal within my mind.

My father had been brilliant on a broom.

"Ron," I said, narrowing my eyes in concentration. I could see the thought manifest before me. "Weren't there a couple of Quidditch Trophies in the Trophy Room?"

"More than a couple. Blimey, the bloody room was stuffed with them!" His cheeks were red and winded, his countenance carefree. Joyful. "Why do you ask?"

"I want to go have a look."

"What, right now? You think that'd be smart, considering last night? Aren't you supposed to _not_ return to the scene of the crime?"

I laughed. "We've already been punished for it once."

"Wouldn't stop Snape from punishing us again," Ron muttered dryly.

"I want to see if I can find something about my dad, Ron."

"Oh." There was an odd look in Ron's eyes. Uncomfortable. "Let's go, then."

An hour and several wrong turns later we found ourselves at the threshold of the Trophy Room. Voices echoed off the walls of the corridor, coming from inside the room. They sounded young.

"-no sign of any fight, is there?" a girl by the sound of it was saying. "Are you positive Potter and Weasley fought here last night, Neville?"

"Yes. Someone must have cleaned up after them. I'm telling you Ron Weasley looked-"

"Awesome, right?" Ron said, announcing our presence.

They whirled about and hurdled together, alarmed. I recognized the anxious face of Longbottom from last night, and I recognized the bushy-haired girl from the train. For some reason the name escaped my recollection.

"Hermione Granger, right?" said Ron beside me, looking at her funnily.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she said, not answering Ron. Not even looking at him. Like he was unworthy of note. I looked between them, unsure if there was something there, but sure I wasn't seeing it.

"Ah – why do you ask that?"

"Because you're not supposed to be here. You'll get us all in trouble." She cast her eyes for the door, as if sensing all the teachers converging at our location. None came, of course. "I heard about your fight last night. That wasn't very smart at all, was it?"

I blinked. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted Ron's eyes gaining a distinct twitch.

"It… really wasn't about being smart at all, though," I said, nudging Ron, silently telling him to keep his shit together. "And I think most of the school knows by now. Considering the house-points we lost.".

Hermione laughed, though it was hardly a warm sort of laugh.

"We saw," Neville said quietly. "There was a cork in between in the Slytherin's hourglass."

"Most likely because of the points _they_ lost."

Seems like the entire school had been made aware of the cost of our faults.

"What's it to you, Granger," Ron said dryly.

"The cork will disappear once they're above zero again." She smiled sweetly at us. "Unless, of course, you end up losing any more points."

"Are you looking for a fight?" I said, furrowing my brow, annoyed at last, twirling my wand. "Because if you are, you're doing a good job of it."

Hermione went for her wand, as did Ron, even as Neville slowly distanced himself from Hermione with small, measured steps.

I held my hand up for Ron, pacifying him for the moment, knowing that if he got his wand out curses would be flying again. McGonagall had been on our side last night; I wasn't sure she'd be that if Ron cursed one of her students.

"Really, Granger, if I'd wanted to curse you, I'd done so already." I gave my wand a whirl, sparks of red and golden light emanating from the tip. "I've had it in my hand the whole time, you know."

Hermione, frowning, slowly placed her wand back inside her robes.

"You wouldn't know how to, anyway. We haven't learned any curses yet." Though no uncertainty coloured her voice, she looked anything but certain of the fact.

"Of course he knows curses! How else would we have defeated a sixth-year student? No offence, Harry, but does he really look like he could take on an older student with his fists?"

"Hey!"

"I said no offence, Harry. You're not allowed to take offence."

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

"A sixth-year?" Hermione interrupted us, looking intrigued between us. "Which six-year?"

"Marcus Flint," Neville said. "I forgot he was there last night."

Hermione rounded on Neville immediately. "You said they had been in a fistfight!"

"It looked so!" Neville held up his hands, shielding himself, horrified. "They never really talked about how they fought…"

"Yes we did," I said, furrowing my brow at the larger boy. "Quite a lot actually."

"Oh." Neville turned slightly pink. "Well, I, er-"

"What curses did you use, then?" Hermione said, dismissing Neville as she turned to me. "Must be something more advanced than first-year to take on a sixth-year student – actually most of all curses are taught after our first year."

I shrugged, smiling. "It wasn't me."

"What…" Her eyes left mine, focused on Ron for a second, then returned to me. "Impossible."

"Hey!" Ron cried.

"No offence, I'm sure," I said quickly.

"Offence taken!"

"On the train ride he tried to make his rat yellow with a ridiculous spell that doesn't even exist. I looked it up-"

"I'm sure you did. Look, we came here for a Trophy with my dad's name on – or my mum, I guess…"

"Oh." The defiance fell away from Hermione's eyes, replaced by a tenderness that raised my opinion of her immediately. And her usefulness. "Well, I couldn't find anything with your mother's name on, but your father has a couple – there is one over there."

I stared, dumbfounded, tried to say something, found no words, then shut my mouth, staring still.

Ron had no such troubles.

"You've looked up his parents!" My astonishment was mirrored in the tone of his voice. "That's… well, that's bloody creepy!"

"Oh, come on! I'm hardly the only one taking an interest in him." Hermione blushed outright when she realized what she'd said, but continued nonetheless. "His story _is_ fascinating. I just wanted to see if I could find something from his past that might explain…"

"The scar…" Ron whispered.

"And what did you find?"

"Well… Nothing." Hermione hesitated. "Your father was amazing on a broom, Harry. There's a whole stack of Quidditch trophies over there. But it is the trophy that way, by the window, that's most interesting. It was from his seventh year apparently."

It was a Medal for Magical Merit. A lavish golden medal carrying the name of James Potter.

"Medal for Magical Merit?" Ron said, looking at it awed. "For what?"

"Dunno," Neville answered. "But he's on here, too. As is your mum, Harry."

I looked at what he was pointing at. It was a list containing the names of all the Head Boys and Girls in Hogwarts' history.

"Both your parents were Heads, then." Hermione wore a strange, bland mask.

"Your father was Quidditch Captain, too, Harry!" Ron yelled, standing by the cups and trophies Hermione had pointed at initially. "Merlin – look at all this! Your dad wasn't amazing on a broom; he was a _genius_!"

"You don't have to gush about it."

Ron stopped gushing.

"I was _not_ gushing!"

"He was also a gifted student apparently," Hermione said, studying the Medal for Magical Merit with an envious look she wasn't quite capable of masking. "I wonder what it's given for…"

"Your dad sounds awesome."

Suddenly, I found the room tightening around me with invisible claws, gnawing away at me with a vengeance born out of an unrealised future.

"I… I wish I'd known him." I looked at Ron, caught his eye; something told me he understood my tone immediately.

"Let's get back to the common room."

I nodded. Grateful. "Yeah…"

"Where exactly is Slytherin's common room?" Hermione asked curiously, following us.

"Not now, Hermione," I said. The world, there like a normal plane of existence moments ago, was blurring with drunken edges. Slipping. A scream arose through the edges.

 _You hear that? Mudblood!_

"You're not going to-"

"He said, not now!" Ron all but snarled.

I turned the corner, the way unseen, blinded by a world I couldn't comprehend. Rising from somewhere I couldn't see. Flashes of green light. Screams. Distress not my own – and yet part of the synapsis of my brain somehow. Remembered not as a memory I'd lived, but endured through another being. Pain unimaginable.

"Harry," Ron whispered beside me, "where're we going, mate? What's going on?"

I turned another corner, ignoring Ron, everything of reality unfound in the enormity of whatever memory beset me. A door blocked my way; I turned the knob, finding it locked.

 _Alohomora._

I blinked, startled, frantically looking everywhere.

"Here, let me," Hermione said, stepping forth with her wand raised.

I raised my own. " _Alohomora_ ," I intoned.

The lock clicked.

"Harry." I turned to the sound of the voice, for a frightening moment not recognizing it, and found Ron at the end of it. "I thought you said you didn't know the spell to open locks."

"I…" I licked my dry lips, the edges trembling. "I didn't."

Ron found a confused expression, as did Hermione and Neville, looking between themselves.

"I don't understand."

Welcome to the club, I thought. Where had that thought come from? Had I read it somewhere? No. Maybe heard it…

Fuck.

"Come on!" Hermione suddenly persisted, eagerness colouring her voice, pushing me out of the way to get at the door. "We can't stand here all day."

"You little-"

 _BOOM_!

The door was torn of its hinges, busting outwards and almost hitting Hermione. An enormous, foul-smelling mouth tried to gnaw its way through the threshold, snapping at me, spittle flying everywhere.

"Run!" I yelled, dragging a frozen Hermione with me, as Ron grabbed Neville and ran.

We left the macabre corridor to the loud, screeching sounds of what appeared to be a vast dog.

Hermione and Neville, not saying a thing, disentangled themselves from us the moment we hit the corridors of the third floor, hurrying past us towards what I could only assume was the Gryffindor common room.

Ron, turning in the other direction, ran without looking back. A moment later, I heard why. Beyond the screeching, the howling, the clawing and gnawing, there were footsteps, converging on my location.

Shit.

Run. Run. _Run_!

Curiousty persisted.

"If it's Potter again, I swear I'm going to-"

 _Snape_!

Fear overwhelming curiosity in a blessed moment of clarity, I turned in the direction Ron had gone, finding him beyond sight, and raced faster than ever before down the corridor.

Away from the scene of the crime.

Just what the hell was that thing?

* * *

 _Picture yourself unable to perform even the simplest of spells, perhaps the Stunning Spell, Stupefy. A mandatory skill requirement of every member of a Hit Wizard unit._

 _In 1985, psychologists of the Unspeakable Department from the British Ministry imposed upon a new batch of recruits a task that involved the usage of such simple spells – such as the Stunning Spell. During the task, the Hit Wizards, who had shown themselves to all be quite skilled and capable wizards, found themselves unable to stun and apprehend their targets. Their spells simply sizzled out. Impotent. Ineffective._

 _What went wrong? Surely this wasn't an inept group of men. They were some of the toughest, most highly trained individuals in the world, after all; the reason for their failure couldn't possibly be inability._

 _What changed, then?_

 _Something – in specific situations – manifests itself. Something unseen. Something beyond merely physical skills comes into play._

 _We know it as fear._

 _If you're a Potion Master, you'll know intuitively which ingredients will make a certain Potion, and which will break it. If you're a Quidditch Player, you know you can make a certain turn of your broom. If you're a duellist, you know which curses to pull at certain times of distress._

 _You've done these potions thousands of times, you have flown your broom thousands of times, and you have cast your curses thousands of times – and these skills are so intuitive that you_ know _you'll do them well._

 _Yet numerous people have found themselves suddenly incapable of doing something as simple as levitating an object. They forget the tiniest details, like the need to swish the wand before the flick, or instead of levitating something they find themselves suddenly conjuring streams of fire._

 _In my first duel in the German Duel Circuit, I found myself repeatedly duelling my opponent into a corner, locking him up, yet I was unable to finish the duel and submit him. I lost the duel by a single point after going into overtime._

 _Only afterwards did I realize that I'd repeatedly rounded my curses towards his free arm, leaving him with more time to precisely counter my attacks. It was a mistake that I'd probably made countless times in training, but had always had the presence of mind to correct._

 _I could submit a duellist of greater skill than my adversary in a training environment, so why couldn't I think well enough to do the same thing during the fight, in front of hundreds of people? Why couldn't the Hit Wizards perform the Stunning Spell? Why could a person possibly forget how to perform one of the simplest spells known?_

 _Performance Degradation. Take note of it. Performance. Degradation. It might happen to you._

 _The scenario being conducted by the Hit Wizards was a close quarters combat (CQC) simulation. It involved urban warfare with spells emulating the effects of real, perilous spells, hand-to-hand combat with role players wearing spell-lidded, impact-reduction suits, an overwhelming noise stimulus, and poor, macabre lightning._

 _At random intervals throughout the scenario, the Hit Wizards would, without warning, receive a significant pain stimulus to the upper body via an already-applied curse to their skin, stimulating a cursed wound._

 _Under this level of stress, the wizards were incapable of performing the complex motor skills – spells in this case – they'd been able to perform since their time at Hogwarts._

 _The same performance degradation occurs with the Potion Master who fumbles to create the potion that will save his dying wife, the Quidditch Player who finds himself repeatedly losing control of his broom when the dragon bites at his tail. Or a duellist who suddenly realizes that what he knows, instinctively, in a safe environment is not what he knows in the ring._

 _The skill you posses in a calm, controlled environment will probably not be the skills you posses when it really matters. The impact of stress on any given individual may mean the difference between victory and defeat, living or dying, getting eaten or escaping…_

 _Life and death… Winning and losing…_

 _What can be done? To better yourself in such situations…_

 _Well, not a whole lot, apparently. People posses various degrees of propensity to handle themselves in stressful environments, possessing some kind of calming quality that most of us simply don't._

 _But consider this:_

 _No man fears to do that which he knows he will do well._

 _Which means, in layman's terms, that in order to excel – in anything – you must put in the work. Practice, practice, practice, and when your hands quiver with the effort, practice some more._

 _It may not be enough, certainly the kind of environment put upon the Hit Wizards could overcome even the best of us, but with practice you'll always stand a greater chance of success. Always._

 _For the things we have to learn before we can do them, we learn by doing them._

I looked up from the book at the sound of Ron's snoring, groaning bleary-eyed at the dark.

We'd gone directly back to our common room, sprinting past our housemates before they could stop us. Not saying much, the vivid memories of the vast mouth gnawing adrift in our minds, we dressed for bed. It didn't take long for Ron to fall asleep. For a long time I'd sat by our window, looking into the lake, contemplating just what such a dog was doing in a school.

And now, hours later, Ron still asleep, my mind still remained along the same current of thoughts.

Sleep was a long, long night away.


	3. Hogwarts' Last Fool

**Hogwarts' Last Fool**

I awoke in the middle of the night – _that_ night – the night we first saw the dog, Fluffy. Harry was awake – as I'd find him many, many times over the following years, staring through the window into the murky waters of the lake.

"You know," I said, yawning mid-sentence. "We never got _any_ food yesterday – I'm dying here."

Harry, startled, had cast his eyes to me when I spoke up, his green eyes impossibly bright in the darkness.

"I'm not hungry, Ron," he said, looking back out the window the way he had before I awoke. "You go on ahead."

Idiot, right?

"And leave me with all the blame when I get caught?" I leaned out of my bed. "Scared?"

"Really? That's how you're gonna convince me?"

"Is it working?"

"Well – not really."

"C'mon, Harry!" I groaned, sitting up in my bed. "I'll get lost like a – well, a lot before finding it."

He laughed. "It's right beneath the Great Hall, Ron. And you don't need to moan about it!"

"I wasn't moaning! I was groaning."

"It was moaning, mate."

"Okay, maybe it was." I grinned. "Just a little. Are you coming?"

"Sure." Harry looked out the window one last time, looking downwards. Down, down, down…

What was he looking at? Looking for something lurking maybe in the muddy waters of the lake? Well, I know fuck all what's going on inside that head, mate. Even after all these years, he'd still surprise me at every turn of event.

Okay. Honestly. Looking back, I know I was insensitive back in the Trophy Room, gushing over his father's achievements without considering what it might do to Harry. What it might mean to him.

But I understood that. Now. And afterwards. And always. I hate this, man. This! You really want me to go through it. You really want me – _us_ – to explain ourselves? Fuck Harry – he doesn't care what anybody thinks of him at this point, but I do. I'm bound to. You'd think I was used to it by now. Explaining myself. Justifying my shortcomings.

Oh all right. I was a dick. Unintentionally. And I also felt a sense of guilt about it.

Harry'd hate that, of course, but that's what I felt.

"I'm sorry, Harry." I told him, almost out of the blue, conveying my thoughts with utmost sincerity. But it was, at some level, an honest lie. White as the purest of snow. I barely even understood it myself. "You know, for-"

"It's all right, Ron."

Somehow he got what was going through my head. It wasn't all right, but it was what it was. Life's not fair and all that.

"At least we got to see a giant dog monster, right?"

He laughed. The years that would truly get to him later bled off his face as his smile became genuine. Isn't that a sombre thought, though? To think… to realize that he had had to endure a childhood devoid of love and attention to earn those marks of cynicism on his face.

And he was only eleven years of age.

I searched for my clothes, scattered on the floor; I'd be in bed sometime later and therefore didn't want to put on something clean.

"I can't see a thing in this room!" I said. "Where's the damn light?"

"Here – wait a sec."

I waited. Suddenly there was a bright source of light. Looking to my left, at Harry, I saw him with his wand in hand, aloft, a pulsing, white light at the tip, banishing the shadows.

"Thank you." As an afterthought. "The spell?"

He grinned sheepishly. Almost apologetically. Another swish of his wand saw the light raised gently into the air above our heads, floating on a wind you couldn't feel, filling the whole room with its bright presence.

"Sorry, Ron. Dunno. It just… well, it comes to me."

I nodded. Secretly resenting it somewhat – a resentment that would rear its ugly head multiple times in the future, growing horridly large at times.

It struck me that Harry might just be lying. That he indeed knew the spells he used, but didn't want to share. That he wanted – _needed_ – to feel special somehow. To live up to the legend that clung to his scar. I thought that maybe he needed to be better than me.

It was a preposterous thought, of course. But to an envious, eleven-year-old boy it made all kinds of sense.

But I knew, even back then, knew he wasn't lying. It just… came to him. As a thought out of nowhere. True inspiration, which is impossible to fake, shone from him. You could see it. Whenever I saw him thinking about the magic he didn't know but wanted to do, to create, his eyes growing distant, that green light dimming – contemplating it, as he'd say – I could see… see his mind slipping to some place you and I cannot go and then brighten with comprehension moments later.

True talent. True genius. That annoying thing you can't replicate no matter how hard you work, or how many years you stare it in the face.

You know Albus Dumbledore, right? Of course you do. Everybody does. Well, have you spent more than a minute being in the same room with him? Talking to him? You have? Did you ever get the feeling that he knew just what would come out of your mouth before you said it? That he just knew. Understood you better than you'd ever understand yourself.

Infuriating, isn't it?

It's the same thing with Harry. Though to a lesser extent when we were but wide-eyed, astounded children.

It was – it is – infuriating to be around sometimes, let me tell you that. Seeing your mediocrity painted for all to see on the canvas of life. Anybody – experiencing what it's like to be around someone vastly superior to you – anybody saying otherwise is a lying arsehole.

Almost from the moment I met Harry I knew he'd go places, you know. He'd make something of himself. Destined for the stars or whatever shit you'd call it. Harry would never worry about such things as making ends meet, employment, paying the bills… getting the girl – the simple shit we all fret about. His fame, his talent… whatever… it'd see him through such worries.

I'm not… _that_. My silent dreams, from before Hogwarts, dreams of being special, of being revered, of stepping out of my brothers shadows, were shattered the moment I met Harry. Befriended him. His shadow is simply too great for my inferior talents. And even if I wanted to let go of him, say goodbye and chase my own way, I knew it was impossible.

Harry has this way, you see, of drawing you in – once you get close enough.

And I love Harry. Did it back, then, too. Loved him like I loved my brothers.

And, listen, it's a selfish feeling. I _know_. I feel bad just talking about it. I know you're not supposed to be envious of your friend's fortune. It's not Harry's fault. It was my fault. And… it's not my fault. Not today, not anymore. Maybe it never truly was. I was just the last son in a long line of sons – the brother that should have been a sister.

Mum and dad loved me. Cared. Make no mistake. I was neglected – maybe even forgotten at times – but I was not discarded like trash the way Harry was. I was loved.

But my first wand used to belong to Charlie, one of my older brothers.

Consider that for a moment. What does that tell you? What does it tell an eleven-year-old boy? No self-help bullshit about how we forge our own destines and shit? The truth, please – in all its shitty, pragmatic glory.

He outgrew it one day – that shit happens apparently. And suddenly my mother saw a way to save some money, never realizing what it might mean to me, both for my education, but also symbolically for an eleven-year-old boy, who was already riddled with insecurities because of the tales of his awesome big brothers.

Well – you're in second line, son. And mummy just won the lottery of the day.

Even I figured that out pretty quickly, mate. Fuckin' shit.

Shit.

Sorry – got any tissues? This shit's getting to me, eh.

Okay. Fuck the soap opera. Nobody cares about that shit anymore, right?

We sneaked into the kitchen, got our food, sneaked back without getting caught and were sound asleep within the hour. No fuss, no buzz.

At least I was. Don't think Harry slept much.

Yeah, that's not what you want to hear, either, is it?

Is it?

Well, is it? Speak up.

Okay. Focus.

The weeks drew on, and somewhere within the weeks the Slytherin house stopped harassing us about what we'd cost them. Sure they didn't forget the incident entirely. Some of the upper years – especially the seventh years – certainly didn't forgive us, but we learned to live with it. Looking over our shoulders.

I think that was what Snape wanted.

One day I sat in the library, going through my Transfiguration book for a certain sentence to my essay. Can't remember which right now and it really doesn't matter.

Harry slouched in the seat opposite me, everything about him screaming utter boredom.

That'd piss me off further down the road, too. The self-assured, unthinking confidence he developed as a result of his superiority. Right now, though, I barely understood it.

"Can I try something?"

I looked up from my book, confused, thinking he'd misspoken or something.

"Sorry?"

"Can I try something?"

Instantly I was weary, brow furrowing further. Something was definitely wrong.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Sure, Ron, why wouldn't I be?"

"You never ask for permission. Usually."

"Oh." He blinked. "I see. I wanna try something on you."

That sentence floated like smoke between us, dissolving leisurely, leaving dread in my heart.

"No!" I cried at last, holding the book up in front of me, in between us, with both my hands. "I mean, the last time – I heard Malfoy ended up in the Hospital Wing, mate."

"He overstressed the severity of his lacerations." He waved a hand dismissively. Then looked at me funnily. "What?"

"I've no idea what you just said."

"Neither do I. The point is he was _fine_. I overheard Madam Pomfrey talking to Snape. Still can't believe Malfoy didn't rat me out. I almost got caught looking in on the little prat!"

"He's taller than you," I said. Wearily, I kept the book between us, shielding me from harm.

"Whose side are you on?"

"Blimey, whose do you think? Mine." I laughed. "Definitely mine."

"Wait, he's taller than me?"

"I think so."

"No. Really?"

"Really."

"Hold still." He leaned over the table, tapping his wand to the cover of my book before I could remove it. "There – try and let it go now."

"Let it go?" I studied the book. There was nothing different about it. I certainly didn't feel different. "Wha – AH!"

"Be quiet, you two!"

"Sorry, Madam Pince."

"Get this thing off, Harry!" I whispered furiously, shaking the book in my hands, now glued to my skin.

"One moment, Ron. Hold still!" He studied it with his bright, green eyes, humming to himself in a quiet manner that seemed deceptively like a hunter prowling for its prey. "It wasn't supposed to stick to both hands. But I'd call it a success anyway."

"I don't bloody care!" And I bloody didn't. I shook my hands continuously, gaining panicky vigour, trying to rip the book off, but it just stuck to my skin like resin.

"Now…" His eyes gained focus, intent, as he raised his wand. He looked like he was about to manically strike me down. "For the second part…"

"Oh no you don't!" I snarled, raising my hands above my head, intent upon whacking him with the book.

A flick of his wand, faster than I could hit him, and the book in my hands gained weight. A lot of weight. Really fucking quickly. My arms boggled, my back cracked over, and gravity caught the book and crashed it into the table between us, cleaving it in two, dragging me with it through the pieces, and slamming me into the stone floor. The two cleaved halves of the table toppled over and struck against my back, as my fingertips broke between the weight of the book and the stone-floor with a sickening crack that seemed to echo off the walls.

There was a second of silence, as befit a library, and then I screamed pure motherfucker.

"AH! BLOODY HELL! HARRY!"

"MR WEASLY! POTTER!"

"Sorry, Ron!" Frantic, wide-eyed – and half-laughing – the fucker waved his wand around aimlessly. "Sorry, Madam Pince!"

I gained my legs, squatting low with feet centred firmly despite the pain, trying to free my hands with my entire body; the book pinned me to the floor.

"GET OFF OF ME, YOU STUPID BOOK!"

"MR WEASLEY!" Finally Madam Pince was there. "Never in my life-"

"I CAN'T FEEL MY DAMN FINGERS!"

Harry, seeing the crazed librarian had been approaching, had wisely distanced himself. Seemingly deep in thought, he stood off to the side with eyes closed, brow furrowed in thought. He kept tapping the tip of his wand to his nose. Merlin, I've never seen anything so god-fucking-ridiculous as that facial expression. Then he seemed to snap awake.

"Got it! Ron – oh for god's sake it's just a book-"

"It's a monster!"

"Stand still so I can aim properly."

"Stand still? STAND STILL! I CAN'T MOVE, YOU-"

"DETENTION!" The librarian shrieked. "DETENTION! DETENTION FOR BOTH OF YOU!"

"Yeah, yeah – not now," Harry muttered, squatting down beside me and tapping his wand to my hands. "That should – look out, Ron!"

Too late. I'd been trying to pull my hands free, applying all of my bodily force away from an unmovable object; so when my hands were suddenly free, I almost flew backwards, banging the back of my head into another table behind me.

The library swirled away from my watery eyes for a moment, and shrilly screams claimed the air. To this day I still don't know if the screams belonged to myself or Madam Pince. Thoughts were too heavy to hang on to through the battering lances of pain. But a single thought persisted.

I was going to kill Harry Potter.

Half an hour later, we left the Hospital Wing for the Great Hall; it was almost time for dinner.

"Why in Merlin's name did you even do that?"

"To see if it worked," Harry said. "And it did."

"But why?"

He shrugged. "Something I read about. It could come in handy someday."

"Never on me again, Harry! Never!"

"It was only a few broken fingers, Ron." A second's pause, then he added. "And a minor concussion. Madam Pomfrey fixed you right up in less than five seconds."

"Never. Again. My fingers were all but ripped off!"

"All right, all right." He paused, thinking, and as he thought, he tensed further and further in frustration. "I just can't find a way to spell my things lighter. The opposite process is easy enough – as you saw."

"And felt, thank you." I thought about it for a second. "I'm sure I've seen my parents do it loads of time. Maybe you should just ask one of the Professors about it?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

"At least it won't break my fingers." I muttered.

"That's a defeatist's argument."

"A what?"

Harry spoke no more and I took a look around. Nobody. We were alone in the corridor; I could hear the voices of hundreds of students, though. Somewhere close.

Close, but not right here. For now, we were alone. Good. I turned to Harry and stopped him.

"What-"

"Harry, are you sure it's guarding something?"

He blinked, then caught on a second later. "The dog? No. Not sure. But it makes sense." He pulled a face and tilted his head momentarily. "Well, of all the possibilities my head's come up with, it makes the most sense."

"Harry – this is a _school_. Not a fortress. I know it's a magical school and we can be barmy, but that's just…"

"Crazy?"

I nodded. "Who keeps something on a school that needs that kind of protection?"

"I agree," Harry whispered, looking around, seeing something men like me – like the rest of _us_ – no doubt couldn't see. "But, Ron, you didn't see Hagrid that day. I don't know what he pulled from that vault, but it must be valuable – or powerful. He looked scared of it. Besides, that break-in at Gringotts happened on my birthday. The same day, Ron. You saw how Hagrid reacted when I brought it up."

We'd been down by Hagrid's place a couple of days ago. That had been an experience. Hagrid didn't say much about the whole thing, but by the looks of it, it seemed Harry had been pretty close to things Hagrid rather not divulge.

"And you think the dog is guarding whatever it is?"

"Yeah. Hagrid said he picked it up for Dumbledore. I think Dumbledore's protecting it for someone. A friend, perhaps."

"But why?"

"Dunno. But if you had something – something valuable, something dangerous – something you wanted gone, then who'd you like to protect it for you?"

I didn't need to think long on that. "Dumbledore. For sure."

Harry nodded. "Exactly."

Harry didn't offer more to break the edginess between us, and I shuffled nervously in the wake of his words. Harry didn't seem to mind the tension at all. Like he didn't even sense it.

"You think someone will come for it?" I finally asked, dreading the answer. But I needed to know for some reason.

Harry looked in the direction of the Great Hall, silent, listening to the large number of students gathering for dinner, happily chattering, laughing – everything I wasn't at that moment.

At last, he nodded. "You know," he said, turning to me. There was a fire in his eyes, a defiance that really shouldn't have been in a face so young. "I think someone already did. And whoever it is has got to be impatient – I mean, risking breaking into Gringotts. Who does that? What kind of _desperate_ does that?"

I had a vague notion. It made me shudder. I sighed. "I don't know. Dumbledore will protect it, right?"

"Right."

Something in Harry's face bothered me. Like he wanted me to actually say it. Say _his_ name.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just… Ron, remember, nobody's infallible."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Who'd dare go up against Albus Dumbledore, Ron? Can you imagine anyone?"

Shut up, Harry! Just shut up. "You can't…"

"My scar _hurt_ when we first got here. It never hurt before. It hurt again the other night – that night. God, everything hurt then. First I thought it was because of Snape. I doubt it now. It's this place; it's someone in this place. Someone more powerful than Snape could ever hope to be."

"No…"

"I saw something…"

Harry paused, and he almost seemed frighten of what he'd been about to say.

"What?"

"You-Know-Who. _Voldemort_!" Harry said resolutely. The word was a curse, and the life in the very air was sucked into a void, leaving me gasping for breath. "It must be."

"Don't say that name!" I hissed.

"That's why my scar hurt, Ron. Voldemort gave it to me, and Voldemort's the one making it hurt now. He's the only one – as far as I know – who'd stand a chance against Dumbledore."

"Eh… shouldn't we talk to someone about this?"

Harry laughed. An actual, genuine laugh that filled the corridor. It didn't lift my spirits, but it awed me. Who the fuck could laugh in the face of such horrid thoughts?

"Talk to someone?" he said at last. "Who'd wanna speak with us?"

* * *

I spent many weeks afterwards thinking about our conversation that day in the corridor. Thinking about the dog. About what it protected.

About Voldemort.

He was dead. Had to be. The world had celebrated it like they had been granted back the gift of life itself. For some of us it was just that.

Harry did, too, you know. He was just quieter about it. But I often found him pensive by a singular window, staring, a book or his wand forgotten in his lap. Thinking just as me.

But then time – Time, really – happened. As it always does. And we moved along with it. As we must.

School got harder. Snape got meaner. And Hermione and I forged a deep dislike with one another that would last through the ages.

Choices, man. Some choices last forever. Leading down a road we can never get back from.

Sometimes it is best to just shut up. Let go of your ego and just accept that other people can have insecurities just like you. Manifesting in totally different and exciting ways.

Man.

Come on.

Harry received a letter on the morning of Halloween.

I was enjoying my breakfast, gulping it down with sheer ferociousness, and Harry was enjoying… well, he seemed to be listening to the chatter and clatter of the Great Hall. But he showed no enjoyment.

I frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Frown deepening, I considered him for a second. And now that I thought about it, he had seemed tense the entire morning. Even our classmates seemed to have noticed. Daphne Greengrass looked on the verge of approaching him.

The darkened, sleep-deprived shadow beneath his eyes – the dangerous edge that hadn't yet manifested fully – kept her at bay, no doubt.

A moment later the peace of our table was broken as Hedwig, Harry's owl, swooped down and landed before him.

Harry blinked. "Hey girl. Oh. A letter, Ron." He sounded all confused. Like he was waiting for me to tell him what to do with it. "I never get letters…"

I nudged him gently, mindful of everyone around us.

As if snapping out of a trance, Harry's hand snatched the letter off Hedwig's foot. Petting her affectionately, I watched the bird nip back at his fingertips with what looked like mutual affection.

It was a preposterously clever bird.

And then she hopped past Harry's unused plate, stopped by mine and began nipping off different things on my plate.

"I'm really not…" I blinked. "Well, go right ahead, why don't you. See if I care."

"It's from Hagrid," Harry said after a moment of silence. "Says he's got something to show us."

"What's the last thing we got today?"

"Ah… Charms. I think?"

"Right. After that, then."

"Right." He nodded. I nodded. Seemed about right, it did. I stood.

"Shall we? Your bloody bird ate my breakfast."

Harry looked up, eyes narrowed, then smiled. "Good girl."

A day in Hogwarts is never boring. You know that. But even magic, and the study of it in particular, reaches a state of normalcy. You become so accustomed to extraordinary things that they're perceived as ordinary.

Even muggleborns fall to this point of view eventually. It's natural. The mind simply can't keep coping on an everlasting high of excitement. Sometimes it just gotta have to settle on an idea of how the world now works.

We all lose that wonder. Like love – explosive and all-consuming at first, and then on the other side of that is the every-days of life.

Only… that's not quite the case with Harry. I don't know…

I think it's because he perceives it – magic, that is – differently. And that has allowed him to retain his childlike awe. Everything is extraordinary to him because there are always new boundaries, always another limit to push.

And somehow, impossibly, his mind can cope with it. Somehow there is no end to the wonder, if it makes sense to you.

It's funny, really. Harry could go on and on about the classes we had that day, the magic we learned – and the way that learned magic would enable us to learn more intricate spells down the road.

I can't. I only remember Charms for a single reason. The only thing that truly _stuck_. The only thing that my mind could possible perceive as extraordinary enough to stick with me all these long years later.

The things that bind people together, man – and the things that break us apart. Sometimes it's the smallest moments.

To me, it shows the importance of emotional release. And the bleakness of it all when it escapes us.

Choices. Regrets. We all have them, right? The idea that there could have been another road for us had we but chosen another way, another word.

Another word.

No word. No word at all.

Ah, you'll see.

Later on Charms would be by far my best class, but on this particular occasion I struggled. Most of us did. All of us, in fact, except Harry. A recurring theme. Flitwick announced to the class that we were finally ready to make objects fly. Something most of us had looked forward, too. I'd, of course, already seen Harry do it, but he'd finally know the spell for it, at least.

Professor Flitwick put us into pairs, parrying Harry with Neville Longbottom. Harry didn't look very thrilled with the prospect (Neville was wildly considered the most useless student of our entire year, discounting Crabbe and Goyle, of course), but his displeasure was nothing compared to mine.

"Miss Granger, you can take Mr Weasley."

I'd had no interaction with the good Miss Granger since that day in the Trophy Room, but I knew a recipe for disaster when I saw one.

Hermione looked about ready to rebel the order – something most would consider impossible for her – but she found the seat next to mine as Harry rose to find Neville.

"Good luck," he muttered, sending Hermione a too-bright-not-to-be-fake smile before leaving.

I sighed, feeling my skin heat around the ears. "Thanks." I shot Hermione a tentative look, noticing her no-nonsense countenance. "I'll need it."

"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practising," Flitwick squealed from his place atop a pile of books. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick…"

"You done this charm before, then?" Hermione asked me. "Seeing as you apparently know curses outside of school's curriculum."

"School's what?" I said, missing her last word. I tried to keep the tone civil. I really did. I could feel Harry's inquisitive eyes on me from the table beside us. His feather – the object we should be focused on – was already gently floating along above us.

He did it without even paying it the slightest amount of attention.

Fuck him.

Hermione's eyes, briefly looking enviously in Harry's direction, gained a measure of distain when redirected at me. "Never mind. Show me," she said simply.

I admit something about her just… got to me. The wrong fucking way. But I shouldered my irritation and grabbed my wand tightly.

I'd show her, I thought.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" I said, almost shouted, pronunciation just right enough to make the spell actually take hold, but also askew enough that I quickly lost the connection.

The feather had twitched, taken to the air, and then flopped down uselessly.

"Hmm." I certainly didn't imagine the relish coming off her voice. I didn't. "Well, you're saying it wrong, you know that, right?" Hermione said, almost snapped. I felt rather than saw Harry deflate at the other table, as if he'd seen this train wreck coming all along.

My fingers tightened around my wand, knuckles white. And, really, I tried to keep my shit together, but anger born out of a low self-esteem, coupled with Hermione's own insecurities, manifested in a most obnoxious way, created the inevitable collision.

Really, looking back, it was all Flitwick's fault. He should have known better. Should have seen a disaster. Should have seen that we, in that point in time, were not compatible for this.

I should have just kept my mouth shut.

"You do it, then, if you're so clever!"

And, of course, she did it. Perfectly. And in that moment I hated her all the more for it. Flitwick's loud praise of her skill didn't make it any better.

"Show off!" I muttered just loud enough for her to hear me. I may have said something worse afterwards…

Her hurtful eyes felt _good_. The best feeling I'd had all day.

"It's no wonder no one can stand her," I said as we left class. It was meant for Harry, but every Slytherin student – and I mean everyone, even Malfoy – heard and laughed. That, for a wonder, felt good, too. "It's _Leviosaaaaa_. Honestly, she's a complete-"

"She's a Mudblood, Weasley," Malfoy said loudly as if that explained everything.

"Don't say that word, Malfoy!" I whispered darkly, though too late. Everyone heard, and I saw Harry getting shoved by a tearful Hermione, who hurried off.

Everyone had heard us.

"You take that back, Malfoy!" a black boy in Gryffindor snarled, stopping in the middle of the corridor. The rest of the Gryffindors stopped beside him, all of them glaring daggers at Malfoy. Some even at me.

Now, I didn't particular care for Hermione at the time. But my loyalty, contrary to the colour of my uniform, lay wholly with the Gryffindors here. There was nothing I'd rather want than to see Malfoy getting the good bit of magic-fisted, cock-punching justice that he deserved.

Unfortunately, the only one among us with the balls big enough to actually deliver was dragging me off.

"Harry! What the bleeding hell!" I snarled. Harry dragged me by the arm through the masses of Gryffindors with a strength that far surpassed the size of his body. I couldn't see his face, but the Gryffindors, taking one look at him, separated to let him pass.

"Hey! Potter! Weasley! Where're you going?"

"You're on your own, Malfoy," Harry called over his shoulder, then he turned to me as he let go of my arm. "Hagrid, remember?"

"But…" My mind lurched for a thought that could make sense of my confusion. "Shouldn't we help… well… one of them?"

"Well, who'd you wanna help?" He waited for my answer. I had none. "Right. So I'd rather go see Hagrid. Come."

I had that feeling of guilt. That feeling where you just want to do something to drown it. Anything. Even fight for nothing. I didn't much care who we supported, Gryffindor or Malfoy, as long as it ended up in a fight.

Fucking Hermione Granger.

Harry had felt off, though, detached the entire day. For whatever reason, and there was always one, I just couldn't quite see it. But I could see his face, his sadness, and my shoulders slumped in defeat.

"All right," I said, and followed him out and away.

We left behind the rising commotion, the crowded corridors, and the students walking among each other in a familiar buzz of post-class excitement.

Ten minutes later, Harry knocked on Hagrid's door.

What would greet us would erase every thought of Hermione from my mind.

Hermione would enter my mind again, though. At a point, she always did.

Anyway. Hagrid opened the door. The giant man, filling out the entire threshold like an overgrown troll, looked round the entire grounds of Hogwarts.

There was dread. His eyes were flickering wildly to and fro. Seeing demons hot on his too fucking humongously large heels.

I looked over my shoulder, suddenly nervous, noticing that Harry displayed no outer sign of nervousness – he just stared at Hagrid, eyes dream-like and narrow – girls called them smouldering, I reckon – waiting to be let in.

"Can we come in, Hagrid?"

Spoken softly, but as the sentence left Harry's mouth, it lingered like smoke, drifting into my consciousness and manifesting like a battering-ram. Echo. Echo. Echo…

 _-can we come in, Hagrid?-_

 _-can we come in, Hagrid?-_

 _-can we come in, Hagrid?-_

I suppose it did the same to Hagrid. Because his drifty eyes gained focus and, with a grunt of agreement and a dirty look my way, he let us in. Somehow he had gotten it into his head that I was the reason Harry ended up in Slytherin – conveniently forgetting that I was sorted after Harry – and as a result hated my gut.

"Harry, I have to show yeh something. C'mon!"

Have you guys ever been to Hagrid's hut? No? Well, let me tell you something. It stinks. Like a savage a month away from his yearly bath.

But he's a good man at heart. Innocent man, really. Yeah, I know. Big, scary fella with a big heart – it's the cliché of all clichés. And it's true.

His hut was a small, woody cabin by the edge of the Forbidden Forrest. Oval and cosy, it wasn't very spacious – certainly not befitting of a man of Hagrid's size.

Hagrid didn't seem to care.

Somehow it bothered me that day. Somehow everything bothered me that day.

Merlin, come to think of it, I fucking hate that day. All of it. Can't I just erase it?

Well, we settled down around the table, mugs the size of our heads in our hands, Harry and I not daring to actually drink the substance within, and waited for Hagrid to spill the gossip.

He always did, you know.

Only this time, Harry was already ahead of him.

"Hagrid," he said, eyes glued to the fires of the fireplace. I didn't like his look one bit. "What is that?"

I had a funny feeling. I'm not fucking with you here. I had one of those feelings. An, eh, epiphany if you will. A certainty that something… _unusual_ was about to happen to us. That it would change our lives – and not in a good way.

You ever had one of those? No. Hang around with Harry for awhile and you will.

It was all in his eyes, man. Looking into Harry's gaze, as he stared at whatever lay within the fire, behind my back, I knew without turning that I didn't want to look at it, man.

Now, you see, with my back turned… it was like something Harry explained to me once. There, when I hadn't yet seen… it didn't exist.

For a moment I almost believed that thought. Crazily wanted to believe. Believed that something could exist and not exist simultaneously, as Harry put it.

Schrödinger's cat, I believe he called it. It's a thought experiment – apparently Muggles do that – where you put a cat into a box, close it, and then gas the insides of the box until no living thing can survive in there.

Muggles are crazy motherfuckers, I know.

But the thought experiment goes like this, I think: the cat is now alive and dead simultaneously from where we look. The cat should be dead, right? No living thing can survive. Yet we have no prove of the claim. So based on what we know, what we can see, the cat is both dead and alive, until someone opens the box.

Yeah, Harry likes that sort of thinking.

I don't buy it. The cat is in the fucking box, and if you wanna know whether or not it made it, open and see. And if you can't open it then what's the fucking point.

Whether or not I turned the thing would still be behind me, in the fire, the truth was clear to see in Harry's eyes.

I turned.

Ah, Merlin's blue balls.

A dragon, this little thing, almost no bigger than an infant, lay nestled in a pot, which hung and _burned_ above the flames.

It almost looked like that Muggle Satan Harry once told me about.

Now, Hagrid had so far shown me nothing but dislike. I had no reason to have any kind of loyal feeling towards the man. So believe me when I tell you my first instinct was to say…

"Fuck this shit!" I leaped to my feet. "We can't get involved in this!"

"Ron," Hagrid said, pleaded. It was the first time he used my name and that almost caught me off guard.

Almost.

"Harry, that's a dragon," I said with a forced calmness in my voice.

Harry nodded. Too calm for my liking.

"We're already in trouble. Don't give me that fucking attitude! We are. This will see us expelled."

Harry sighed. "He's right, Hagrid. You have to get rid of it."

"I can' just let it go. It won' last a week!"

"If we're lucky, it won't last a day," I muttered.

"You have to." Harry turned to me. "How serious are wizards about their laws anyway?"

"Depends on the law, I guess," I said. "But this one they'll take pretty seriously. Dragons caused problems back when You-Know-Who was still around. Don't want a repeat of that. Or even the possibility of it."

"I'm not releasin' him into the woods, and that's the last thing I'll say about that. Shouldn'ta shown you. I shouldn'ta shown you…"

"No, you shouldn't. But you have and now we have to do something about it," Harry said.

"I know just the spell," I said, raising my wand towards the beast. I remembered the Reducto Curse, remembered the effect it had. It's almost funny, looking back; I barely hesitated, barely thought as I prepared to erase the problem before me. "Redu-"

"YOU WILL NOT HARM NOBERT!" Hagrid roared. His voice shock the room and I lost my focus, the spell sizzling out before it could leave the tip of my wand.

Hagrid stood between the dragon and me now, and I wondered why he hadn't approach me and pulled me apart yet. Only then did I realize that there was a sort of barrier between us, invisible yet tangible.

Of to the side, stood Harry, wand raised and a truly serious expression upon his underdeveloped features. It almost looked comically unfrightening.

Yet I could feel it… something malevolent that neither Hagrid's bulk nor my fright of will could ever hope to match.

"Sit down," he whispered.

I sat back in my seat, and it looked like Hagrid was being pulled as if by magic back to his. Maybe he was and maybe I'd been, too.

"We're not going to kill it, Ron," Harry said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that more than me. "But we need to do something about it. It can't stay here for long before someone finds out."

I really, really had no inclination to help out Hagrid. As I said, the man had been nothing but unfriendly to me ever since we met. Sometimes even downright hostile. But I knew he meant a lot to Harry, and, well, Harry meant a lot to me.

"Ron, your brother, Charlie, right?" I nodded. He proceeded. "Didn't you say he works with dragons?"

"Yeah. In, like, Romania, Harry."

"Couldn't they pick up… er, Norbert here?"

I laughed. I laughed because despite Harry's obvious brilliance that was just about the stupidest thing I'd ever heard.

"Do you… really? Oh, that sounds like a wonderful idea, Harry. Hey, Charlie, listen, brother of mine, I got this wonderful little dragon on my hands here in Hogwarts. Yeah, you heard right – Hogwarts. That's the school, by the way. Anyway, wonderful dragon! Barely dry behind the ears, if you ignore the fire coming out of its mouth. Trouble is it's kind of illegal for me to have it. So I'd really appreciate it if you came and took it off my hands, please. I'm sure the Romanian Ministry will be compassionate as long as you assure them it was for a good cause. And in the likely event that you do end up in prison for it – just like the rest of us – I hear that Azkaban is lovely this time of year."

Harry, unimpressed by my wit, continued as if I'd barely spoken.

"What about… under the radar?"

"Under the what?"

"You know, cloak and dagger kinda thing."

"You've lost me completely."

"Can't you ask him to meet us and take it with him. Discreetly."

"Now wait a second…" Hagrid began.

"You mean asking him to come one night, without permits or anything, and fly it back all the way to Romania? Risking not only his job in the process, but also his freedom?"

"Well, yeah."

"Fuck you, Harry! I can't ask him that. And he won't do it even if I did. Nobody would."

"I would."

"Because you're dumbest smart person I know."

"He's your brother."

"And as my brother he'd say I should stay away from this – which sounds like pretty good advise come to think of it."

"I just… I can't see any other way."

"I'll keep him for the time being," Hagrid said, "until we figure somethin' out."

"In a month it's too late. He'll be too big to hide," I said.

"And too hungry to satiate." I shuddered at the thought.

"There are some caves round the Great Lake. I'll hide him there by then."

Ten minutes later, Harry and I trekked back towards Hogwarts, dreams of a big ol' dinner mostly on my mind.

Dinner and dragons, that is.

"Doesn't it just fill you with a sense of security," I said, "knowing we have people like Hagrid at Hogwarts, hiding dragons and shit on the school grounds where every student can happen upon them?"

* * *

I'm not telling you all this just so you can go off the handle. Hagrid is cool. Should he be around children? Probably not, if I'm being honest. But Hogwarts is a special place, reserved for special people primarily.

Nothing much happened afterwards. Nothing that would interest the likes of you. But… ah, screw it.

It was Halloween night. That meant a Halloween feast. Usually I love that kind of a thing. It's the reason for my existence at times. Yet – here it really wasn't. Not on that night.

Harry still had this sad, depressed kinda face that I couldn't figure out. But that hardly bothered me anymore. No, it was the vacant spot at the Gryffindor table. The imaginary place where Hermione Granger should have been. Where she belonged.

I know that Slytherin has a reputation for selfishness and cruelty – deservedly so, I might add – but none of the Gryffindors in our year showed the least bit of interest for their housemate. Not one. Not even Neville Longbottom, whom I'd heard Hermione had defended on multiple occasions already.

They had the reputation, man. This heroic, self-sacrificing nature that they valued above everything else… and not a single one sought to comfort her, or even seek her out. Not even on a night such as this, a night of celebration.

Most of them are a bunch of arseholes like the rest of us. I have a theory that the Sorting Hat only put most of them in the House of the Brave because they were neither smart, cunning, nor loyal.

At least, under the right circumstances, against an inferior obstacle, you can always _seem_ brave. Even _be_ brave. It's a fake-able attribute. You can't fake loyalty or smartness or cunning, though. Not to a hat that can see inside you.

They were all talentless arseholes.

Those fuckers didn't deserve Hermione.

Yeah. You're right. I fell in love with her at some point later. Some part of me will probably always love her, I guess. If you believe in that sort of thing.

I just… I guess I said the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong fucking time. Never knowing how much those words would hurt myself later.

I found out later that she spent the whole night crying in a bathroom by herself. She was smart; she knew what that meant. None came for her. In her mind, none even spared her a thought.

None cared for her in this place.

I think a part of her died that night on the bathroom floor. That wonder she had… was no more. She mostly kept to herself from there, stayed silent – even in class – and went by as unnoticed as someone with outstanding grades can do.

She never made it all the way through Hogwarts, you know. She lives somewhere in the Muggle World now. Far, far away from this mess of a society we have made.

And not a day goes by where I don't wonder if I'm to blame for that. Yeah, sure, Voldemort and his cause bears most of the blame, but Hermione was the kind of person that would have fought had she been given the reason.

And maybe I took that away from her. Her reason to fight. With my words. With my cruelty.

And we were different, yet she was, I think, something I could have needed, wanted… depended upon. And maybe she could have needed, wanted and depended upon me.

There's a fine line between friendship and dislike. And maybe if I'd sought her out that night, found her crying in a bathroom, said how sorry I was – risked something, man.

Maybe it would have been different.

Fuck me… I was just too cowardly to even try.

Is it weird loving a girl you haven't met in years?

It is, isn't it?


	4. Dragons and Wizards

**Dragons and Wizards**

November went by in a dull swirl of cool, cruel air and an almost never-ending drizzle of rain. To me, there was an almost apocalyptic note of warning in the rain, in the very nature, as if it alluded to something greater on the backbone of an unforeseen future in a cloudy horizon.

Hogwarts itself shared my sentiment. What had been grand and unknown now seemed cut in deep shadows and unfound, but palpable hostility – hostility of which left you marked and darkened.

Magic, as we quickly learned in school, reshaped our grasp of reality, of how the world literally could fold to our will, and gained the kind of normalcy – and tediousness – to our adolescent minds that only old lovers can share.

We grew used to extraordinary circumstances and events – and they became mundane.

To top extraordinary, and gain back some sense of wonder, you have to be willing to trek the borders between wizardry and insanity, you have to be willing to break the rules, to risk trekking on the borders of offense and moral.

I'll find a way, I vowed upon a day wherein the boredom was almost deadening to my busy, almost vividly lively mind.

I wasn't out and about, though. Not that day. Enjoying the solitude that such horrid weather afforded one, if you could but endure – endure the storm. No, I found myself inside the History classroom, enjoying the dusty, deadening smell of the walls and the monotonous voice of a man who had long since given up the pretence of passion for a subject to which he had devoted his life.

And his death, I remember thinking.

History, I'd find, would always be a particular profound struggle for a mind such as mine. For any mind, I guess. Soon after our arrival – we're talking after the very first class here – I discovered that you had to busy your mind elsewhere, whilst you waited for the class to die out and for your life to return to you.

Luckily, for Ron and I, our minds were alight with thoughts and dangerous contemplation in those days, keeping the dullness at bay. A potent cocktail of mystery and danger Hogwarts and the Wizarding World at large would provide for us on numerous occasions throughout our time as students of magic.

So much had in fact happened that I'd all but forgotten about the giant dog and the trapdoor it guarded. I hadn't forgotten about the dragon in Hagrid's home. No, good sir, not at all. And thoughts of the dog and the trapdoor would return sometime soon with great vengeance. Of that there was no doubt.

But for now it was all about the dragon.

And, as it turned out, so, too, thought Ron.

"I talked to Hagrid this morning," he whispered beside me, and though all could hear him saying something, none – including even Hermione, who was always ready to scold one for disrupting the class should the teacher miss it – paid it any attention.

"You talked to Hagrid? By yourself?" Ron and Hagrid still weren't the best of friends, and thanks to Ron's obvious willingness to off Norbert, it seemed unlikely that it'd change anytime soon.

Apparently I'd been wrong.

"Yeah, well," Ron began kinda flustered, as if embarrassed by something. "I guess he must have been looking for you; he asked for you."

"What for?" I whispered, turning the page of my book.

I could feel his gaze on me, studying my behaviour in a way that, for some reason, only Ron could.

"Where were you by the way? This morning."

"In the library."

"Library?"

"Library."

"Whatever for?"

I gave him a look, saying without saying what the fuck do you think. "You know, for books and stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Mostly books."

"Mostly?"

"Books, all right."

"What books?"

"This book." I gave the book in my hands a little shake to emphasize the – to me – rather obvious.

Ron gave it a puzzled look. "Our History book? We've had that one since beginning of term, mate."

"A book cover can be deceiving, my friend. Observe, Watson!"

Ron blinked. " _What_? What did you call me?"

"Observe, Weasley!" I whispered grandly, then shock my head in disgust. "No, that sounds wrong – totally wrong. Why do wizards not read muggle books?" I said, chasing a thought aloud.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Hmm? Right. Look, I'm using the old book within a book trick to fool the professor," I said, voice serious as a heart attack. A healthy dollop of mirth, I'm sure, was hiding beneath the seriousness, of course. But one can mistake sarcasm for seriousness on the fine print, so…

Anyway.

"Looks like a transfiguration book," he noted with a surprisingly keen eye. I nodded, a part of me oddly pleased that he recognized the intricate spell work on the page I was reading.

Was this brotherly pried?

Was that a tear of silent gratitude for Ron in my eye?

Too much? Okay. Too much.

"I'm pretty sure Binns doesn't give a shit about which books you're reading. Actually, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even notice."

"Oh, he notices." I turned another page, eyes on our Professor, who was droning along on another subject that found no interested ear. Something about goblins and rebellions – always something about goblins and rebellions, right? "He just doesn't care. Not enough, anyway, to call you out in front of the class. Wait until your mother sees your midterm reviews."

He sputtered something, eyes wide and face turning a slight, almost imperceptible angry-red. I laughed.

Ron didn't talk a lot about home – something that we shared – but I heard enough to know that his mother could be a rather strict individual regarding certain things.

I secretly quite liked that about him, you know. That he was hesitant to talk about his parents and his home. Both because, though I was fond of Ron, and would grow to love him, I couldn't care less about his parents. And, more importantly, it proved that even a loving environment such as the Weasley household had its rough patches. It made me feel a little bit better about my own, at times, hellish upbringing.

I know. It's a selfish feeling. A dark feeling – one that can spiral into a way of madness and despair. To feel glad – _relieved_ , even – about your best friend's pain…

But it is a natural feeling to have, as well. It's a feeling the human mind, our very soul, is very well-versed with. One that tethers itself to the silent voice in the back of our head, whispering of lustful, sinful delight, promising a mind unhinged from reasonable thoughts and saneness. Promising a character within you aside the scene of life at play between us all.

For we are all playing to the tunes of society. Life is a scene made up of imaginary rules and boundaries yanked into existence by the human unconsciousness and consciousness. And we hold each other accountable by these unwritten rules. One risks losing it all if he dares to play to his own tune.

Dangerous. Treacherous. Such is the frailty of the human mind. The mind is lazy and vindictive and envious. Cruel.

You see… I mean, were any of you ever picked on as a kid? No, I don't mean at Hogwarts, before then. As a younger kind? No? Someone's a liar.

I was, anyway. Cruelly so. My cousin was a swine. One time he… No, this isn't story time and I'm not here for sympathy. Kids can be cruel, though, and back then I believed it was because they just didn't know better.

Which is bullshit.

I mean, it's true bullshit – to a point – but still bullshit. Kids, I believe, are cruel because the mind is cruel. Born cruel. Fickle. Selfish. Entitled and whiny. All those mean, pathetic little things. And they have nothing, no skill or understanding, to defy their own nature. Not yet.

It's also adaptable. Our brain. And a child can be taught to ignore the basic instincts of its will. A well-behaved child is nothing more than a child that has been taught to master its will better than a lesser well-behaved child.

Same with adults, really. We've learned, by the rules owed upon us by a _civilized_ society, to defy our very nature. To be good. Kind. Whatever. Decent and humble. Doesn't mean shit when the chips are down, but we must obey them until then comes.

I've only met one person who never even attempted to fit in. Anywhere. To me… that might just be bravest thing I've ever seen. Because, trust me, I know how hard it can be to defy the expectations of those around you and just do that which is in you.

To me, Voldemort might be the most natural, bravest human being I've ever met.

And trust me I fucking hate him.

"What did Hagrid want?" I asked as Ron settled down after he found out his mother would be informed by his teachers how he was doing.

Sometimes it surprised me, you know, the things that surprised Ron. Sometimes he could be one of the smartest, most perceptive persons I'd ever know. Other times, he could be nothing more than a merry fool, pounding along stupidly on mere will alone.

And I loved him. Love him. Love both side of the coin equally. Differently but equally.

"Norbert is breathing fire now," he said.

"Shit…" I said, trying to feign some kind of fear, some kind of a natural response. There was a moist field of bubbly giddiness beneath the exterior, though, something that could only barely be reigned in.

This, fire-breathing dragons, could break the monotonously slivering of time.

"Yeah…" Ron rubbed his nose, contemplating the situation. "And it's still growing. Hagrid reckons that by the end of the next week it will already be too late to move it without someone – Merlin, probably the whole school – noticing it."

"Wait…" I said, excitement – masked as dread on my countenance – filling me as a thought went adrift inside the darker reaches of my brain. A terrifying thought. A _cool_ thought. "He doesn't – shit, he wants us to help him move it, right?"

"Yeah, said he _needs_ us. Gave me this, too." Ron reached into his robe and pulled out a torn piece of parchment on which a quick little note was scribbled down seemingly in great haste. "A spell," Ron explained as he handed me the note. "Hagrid wants you or me – which means _you_ – to learn it."

"What is it?" I asked, having never seen a spell quite like it before. Usually there was some kind of wand-movement attached to the spell to help facilitate the magic better, but this… _thing_ seemed entirely beyond such shortcuts. I glanced down at my Transfiguration book, looking at the spell I'd just been studying moments before, and realized that what was seconds ago a very intricate spell now seemed like merely another schoolyard spell compared to what was written upon this little note.

Isn't it funny? How worlds can expand as our understanding broadens? That where there's desire, and strive, there can be no true end.

Fascination. It filled my head. And that sheer sense of wonder was, blessedly, back for a second, clearing the cobwebs of boredom for but a moment.

It was a kind of love I'd never known until Hogwarts.

Ron was talking.

"Come again?" I said, shaking my head in a vain attempt to clear the euphoric sense of awe.

"It's a protection spell of some kind."

"Protection?"

"Yeah, you know, I think this one is supposed to keep things hidden and locked away."

"How do _you_ know that?"

"I shall try not to be offended by that tone of voice," he said with a very Hermione-esque huff and customary raised nose of disapproval. "But, Harry," Ron continued, his voice growing serious with a note of warning. "These kind of spells are ridiculously complicated. Hogwarts doesn't even teach you these kinda things. Not in any kind of depth anyway. Bill, my oldest brother, works for Gringotts and deals with this kind of thing. Says it's one of the hardest and most dangerous line of work wizards can do. Of course Bill can sometimes be a bit full of himself, but dad seems to agree. That spell kinda looks like some of the spell work Bill would have lying around when he still lived with mum and dad."

There it was again. Now I knew where he knew, but there it was again, man. There was that little sound of resentment in the back of his voice, in the line between his words, and in the narrowing of his blue eyes. He loved his parents and his brothers and sister, of that I had no doubt, but it was a love born out of forced will.

You get it?

Forced love. At least at times.

He loved them.

I wasn't sure he _liked_ them.

Right now, though, that mattered nothing.

"Do Bill have any books to help me understand, well, something from this?"

"Probably. But he won't lent them to me without asking why, and I'm not too keen on answering that why."

I shrugged. "Could always lie."

"I could, but I won't. And besides." Ron leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. A secret greater than dragons abounding on the grounds of a school full of children. "Hagrid wants to move it this weekend."

"While we play against Gryffindor?"

Ron nodded. "Perfect cover, he says. Everybody will be there. Nobody will notice our absence and nobody will notice us moving a dragon down to one of the caves by the lake."

"Cave? He found one, then?"

He nodded. "According to Hagrid there is an entire system of caves, running for miles down and around the Lake. He will hide it in one of them."

"Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"You gotta admit… this is a little _cool_."

There was a pause, a lull in conversation, wherein the only thing that could be heard was the leaden, ever lurching sound of the dead professor's voice.

"Harry?" Ron said at last – with an odd sort of relish.

"Yeah?"

"You're mental, you know that?"

* * *

Quidditch… the one sport I'd be good at. Great, even, I think. I never got the chance to play, though. Neither did Ron. We'd never be considered in our time at Hogwarts. We were just too out of place and too at odds with Malfoy.

And really, as time wore ever onwards, I kinda lost interest, too.

It destroyed Ron's boyhood dream, though. Because of this, he'd never get the chance to play in the big leagues after school.

That's life, I'm afraid. Builder and destroyer of dreams. Ah, you sort of learn to live above them.

That day, standing on the stadium and looking down at the Quidditch pitch, as the players of Slytherin and Gryffindor ascended the sky on their, I imagined, state-of-the-art brooms, raised to heavens above by the roars of a tempestuous crowd, there was a longing so great that it erased all the worries of what Ron and I would leave in a minute to do.

In that moment Ron and I shared a dream.

I longed for the crowd, in a twisted sort of way. I never wanted the attention, but I wanted to revel in their awed stare. I knew I was born to fly. Made for it.

- _to run_ -

- _to_ die-

But I was, as it turned out, born for other things, as well.

- _Perchance I too have walked, hand in hand, the way of the wise upon the edges of this mortal coil, wherein there lies a line that crosses between life and death in a glare of red and green fire_ -

I was made to wait and run. To die and survive in a clash of equal measures. Living only because – magic willed it – dying wasn't on the table. To stand on the edges of mankind and stare back at its deprived sense of virtue – what was once impossible… now mine forever.

Now I long for the days of ignorance. The days of dreams. The days where I couldn't fathom the lengths that Voldemort and I would go. The laws of magic we'd break in our quest for supremacy. But, alas, when it all comes down to it, ignorance isn't innocence but sin.

Ron tucked at my sleeve, signalling that it was time. And my longing became fear of what we were about to face, which became resolve as I knew we'd do it, which became excitement as I knew that I'd enjoy it. Happened so fast, man, went through the whole gallery of emotions and settled into a quiet disposition wherein will persevered above all else.

I knew it was meant to be.

I could turn it on, almost at will. Dumb, almost single-mindedly focus. I could achieve, even at eleven years of age, a state of mind wherein fear of life – my life – barely existed as anything other than a concept of some forgotten dream.

In a sense I could weave myself in a sphere of immortality, a state of being wherein death was merely a suggestion. I don't know, to this day, where this will of mine came from. Whether it was innate or born out of some misplaced sense of self-hatred I'd installed within myself over the years of abuse at the hands of the Dursley's.

It didn't matter. Ah, to be young and fool heartedly and abundantly arrogant.

I could walk upon a crimson line of blood where courage resided and purpose seemed carved upon the roads of a God-given destiny.

Ron, who I'd do battle alongside most often, could never achieve such a heighten sense of being, but he had his own, at times, formidable courage to do battle with.

I followed him; we pushed through the crowd, knowing the way. And as we left behind a school celebrating its combatants in one of the most noble of sports, we found the grounds empty, as was planned, and we found Hagrid waiting for us in front of his hut.

Would they look upon what we'd do with that same wonder and awe? Would they applaud our courage and loyalty? And could they find a way to view who we are through such actions? Or does such things simply belong in the vacuums of our hearts?

"I've restrained the fella," Hagrid said as a greeting. He was on edge. Nervous. It seemed contagious, because Ron trembled beside me. "He's quite mad about it, too. Quite mad. But he will be all right. Yes, he will."

He was speaking to himself, I reckon. Trying to convince himself of his righteousness.

Often, I've found, for people who truly do not have much – and I'm not belittling Hagrid by applying this to him – their righteousness, and the perception of it in the eyes of others, seems exceptionally important to them.

They have to be good. And be seen as good. For some, that is all there is left to live for, I think.

"Let's get on with it, then," Ron said. "We probably don't have all day. Slytherin were trashing Gryffindor before we left."

"Doesn't matter. Slytherin's seeker has no talent at all," I said, and if Ron heard a note of gleeful revelling in my voice it wasn't entirely imagined. "Nor do Gryffindor's for that matter. They will be at it for awhile."

"Even so, idiots can get lucky. Let's not push ours. I have a funny feeling."

Not that I'd ever admit it aloud, but so did I. All of sudden, too. Not the funny feeling you get from facing a dragon, but the kinda feeling you get when the forest has eyes, when the dark follows you, and when terror fester and tether to your horizon.

When the unknown tracks you with hungry eyes.

"Let's go, then."

* * *

Getting the dragon out the back door was a struggle. Getting the dragon across the fields towards the forest behind which the lake laid was a killer workout in and of itself. At one point I had to use an intuitive little piece of magic to render its constant struggle soundless, lest we should, if not seen, be heard. I wondered for a moment how the fuck Hagrid had even managed to restrain it by himself, then I glanced upon him and realized that that might just be his kind of fun.

Then we came to the forest part of our little journey and the tough going got a whole fucking lot tougher.

"Merlin damn that dragon to hell!" Ron shouted as he threw his hands up in disgust and stood back to rest his back against one of the trees.

Looking back I noted we had made it about twenty yards into the forest. I could feel sweat staining the back of my shirt. Thighs and shoulders were burning with the effort it took to push the struggling dragon.

"Can't we just float the goddamn thing?" I asked Hagrid.

"No." He shock his head. "Dragons are notoriously magic resilien'. Somethin' could go wrong, leavin' the dragon outside our control."

"But Harry managed to silence it. Maybe he can levitate it too?"

"I'd rather not risk it. If Norbert breaks free because we were afraid o' little honest, 'ard work, then I wouldn' be able to forgive myself."

"Don't worry, Hagrid. I'd forgive you."

"Funny, Ron." Hagrid muttered, though I thought I saw a slight smile play somewhere behind that thick beard of his. He actually went to Ron and sat down beside him, back to the tree – which groaned as if pained by his weight – and clapped Ron on the shoulder.

Ron winced, but did his best to stifle the moan of pain.

"Thank you, Ron. And Harry." His eyes found mine. "Thank you fer this. Not many Sl… not many would go to such lengths to help a man such as I like yeh two have." He closed his eyes and leaned back for a second.

I smiled. And I'm not kidding, or trying to sound like a girly wuss, but there was something inside me that warmed – and I mean actually fucking _warmed_ – me about this.

Something unknown. Something wondrous.

My smile broadened as I raised my wand. Something reckless.

Something so wondrously reckless…

"You don't have to thank us, Hagrid," Ron said, leaned back and eyes closed, too. "The least we could."

They talked, of what I could no longer hear, because I'd slowly left them behind. My wand alight with subtle flow of power before me, the dragon had been levitated and now hovered a few feet above ground, floating along merrily on my every whim.

"Ah Hagrid?" I heard Ron say, tone of voice indecipherable in the distant.

"Yes?"

"Harry's gone off with Norbert."

"What!"

* * *

Ten easy minutes of walking later found us staring into what Hagrid had deemed as Norbert's new home. It was a rather large, cavernous space on the shore of the lake, hidden in an alcove-like settlement of the woods.

From this vantage point, at the foot of the cave in between the lake and the woods, one could gaze across the lake and look upon all of Hogwarts in all its splendour.

"Have yeh boys practiced the spell I gave you?"

Ron nodded. "Harry has. Haven't you, mate?"

"I have."

I had. Sort of. Once. Barely.

"Do you think it will work?"

I don't.

"I do."

I nursed the dragon down the dragon hole gently, and my friends trailed behind me. Hagrid stood ready by my side, as he had done ever since I began floating the creature, ready to pull me aside should my control waver.

It didn't.

 _I_ didn't waver.

"Hagrid," I said, pausing as I looked down into the impenetrable darkness of the cave. "Have you checked this cave?"

"Checked?"

"Yeah. You know, that there isn't anything dangerous down there. Or how big it is? Where it might lead?"

"Dangerous?" Hagrid laughed. "Harry, there is not too many things in this world that is a danger to a dragon."

I sighed. He hadn't checked it, then. What if the cave, like a tunnel, had another exit point?

"What if… never mind. What's the plan here, then?" I asked, trying to ascertain some kind of narrative for the fate of Norbert. "Surely, he can't stay in this cave forever, right?" I looked at Ron. "Right?"

"What are you looking at me for?"

"I don't know. This doesn't seem right." I shook my head, looked back into the faceless darkness, and then back into the woods. Something, I felt, was profoundly amiss. "I have a bad feeling."

"Harry, there's nothing down there that can threaten Norbert."

"I don't care about Norbert. If something down there decides to eat him it would ease my mind greatly." Hagrid looked hurt, but I shouldered onwards. "I care about… No, it's something else. Something… I can't see it, but it's… right there…"

 _In the back of your head._

 _Like a dream unseen._

 _Like the ghost of a voice, filled with dissent._

"What are you talking about?" Ron said.

And that was the thing. The fucking thing. I didn't know. Just knew there was something there. Whispering.

"We're not alone," I said it, felt it, dealt it, and the moment the words spilled out of my mouth, the realness of them manifested itself onto my physical awareness.

A grave tenseness clung to the heart of our little, wayward group of benevolent rebels.

"Yeh are bein' paranoid," Hagrid said at last. He sounded like a man trying to convince himself of his own delusion. "There's probably not a human soul within miles from here."

What I thought I felt seemed decidedly more alien than man, but whatever. Hagrid was set in his ways, as was Ron in his own dogged way. Might as well get the show on the road.

I floated the dragon into the cave, looked upon as it was shrouded within the clutches of the blackness, and set down the beast. I felt it, like a kindred spirit in the dark, leave the grasp of my magic.

It was as if it disappeared from the face of reality.

Working fast to ensnare it before it gained awareness of its freedom, I set about performing the protection spell I'd been entrusted to perform.

As I weaved my wand through the air in a series of intricate movements, of which were entirely of my own design and purely instinctual in nature, I had the distinct sensation of seeing a ballet performed with a wooden stick. I was struck by the idea – not for the first time nor the last – that these abstract wand motions where created as little more than to create a placebo effect in the user's mind.

I mean, a right flick, inherently, shouldn't create a different outcome than a flick to the left, should it?

Come on, feasibly, what difference does it make?

The magic didn't take hold.

I lowered my wand, thinking. Seeing illogical patterns form like spidery webs upon the canvas of my thoughts. Something… right there.

"Harry?" Ron said, nerve clear in his voice, but I ignored him.

I held my wand aloft again, sudden and true, not thinking at all.

There had been a sensation. It had been fleeting, but it was there. A sense of magic flowing, of me becoming one with the wand becoming one with the spell becoming…

There was a sense of power – the power of creation, I guess.

You understand me?

I don't suppose wizards have a tendency to think along those line, but… when you create something, anything – be it with your hands, your mind, your imagination or goddamn force of will – it tends to present at the very least a part of what's inside you.

Magic is creation. Manifestation. We impose our will upon reality. We question its limits, unthinkingly, mostly.

For a pureblood, born into magic, it isn't really all that great and wondrous; it just is what it is. Most often, it is merely a means to an end.

For a muggleborn, whose mind has grown accustomed, maybe even dependable, upon the limitations and laws of science… the possibility of magic astounds and overwhelms their brain – until it, too, to protect itself, settles into some kind of normalcy.

Different perspective but the end result is the same. There is an abject lack of imagination. Of seeing possibilities _beyond_ the guidelines of a textbook. Books that, probably – maybe – were written down by people no smarter than you.

All that wand wavering was, I think, created to replace that lack of imagination, of seeing the impossible manifest before you attempt it.

I could feel something. There. Within. As always right there. Waiting for me to but touch it. And maybe it was just my imagination, maybe it was all just in my head, but did that make it any less real?

I followed that sense of manifestation. Followed it into a dark place in the corner of my soul, where something screamed and tethered onto me with a cold desperation for life and perverse fascination for my soul.

And that something _knew_ , and I drew from that knowing.

I held my wand aloft, not uttering shit, not moving a muscle, but moving worlds within the confines of my mind, and magic spewed from the tip of my wand just as the dragon seemed to come to life.

"That felt different," Ron whispered beside me, awe in his voice, even as he stepped back.

"Harry, look out!"

Hagrid had seen Norbert storm me, and jumped at me to move me out of its reach. But I was ready for it. I flicked my wand, holding onto that feeling of manifestation I'd gained from the dark being within – and, without even pointing at Hagrid, I flicked him aside like a fly.

The protection spell, as Hagrid sailed past me, flicked aside Norbert mere feet before me.

You can't touch this, I sang in my head.

Though I was rattled. Rattled and elated. That sense of eagerness in the face of overwhelming power had swept me in its embrace before, but not on a level of this magnitude. Not so clearly as this. Almost as if a part of me resided aside from the rest of me.

"It worked," Ron said.

"You sound surprised," I noted, turning my head, side-to-side, slowly, as if shaking the sentiment of cruelty, of wrongness, away.

"Never doubted you for second, mate." He wiped the nervous stain of sweat off his forehead. "Nope. Never doubted you."

"Right." There was a smile on my face, and that smile – the profound fondness it held – seemed to whisk away whatever lay in prey within. I cast my eyes out over the lake, looking to Hogwarts. "Let's get out of here."

"Yeah," Hagrid said, rising to his feet, even as his eyes stayed on Norbert who was still struggling against the invisible wall of impenetrable magic. "You can still see it. That weren't supposed to be possible."

"It's not," Ron said. "At least not unless you know what to look for. Know like we know."

"You know," I said, smiling broadly.

" _We_ know." Ron smiled, as well.

"Who knows?"

"What knows?" Ron said.

Hagrid smiled. "You know-"

"We know," Ron and I said in unison.

"I don't think I've ever met a pair of Slytherin students quite like yeh two."

A pause settled over us. Well, what do you say to a thing like that?

Hagrid seemed to sense our sudden hesitant nature and continued somewhat hurriedly. "Well, then, have yeh two made any friends in Slytherin yet?"

Ron and I shared a look that spoke of a bond between two boys thrust into plans great and unknown.

"Do enemies count?" I asked, reaching for a disarming smile. I think I found a grimace, a mask of defiant hostility.

"Not a single one?" Hagrid pressed, something I recognized as pity in the cusps of his countenance. "Not one friend?"

"Closest thing we have seen is looks of mild indifference, I think." I know it's cliché as fuck, but that pitying look always gnawed at me the wrong fucking way. "Don't look at us like that. Trust me, Hagrid, you don't want to be friends with most of them."

"There must be some… somewhat decent fellas you could…"

"Maybe." Ron shrugged, entirely non-pulsed by Hagrid look and the subject. "Maybe the ones that don't care are deep down nice people we could hang out with. I doubt it, but maybe. Either way, it doesn't matter. Every time – and I mean every time – Malfoy or one of his friends has had it in for us, not a single one of them defended us. Maybe they care, just maybe, but obviously not enough to risk anything at all for us."

"That's not fair, Ron," Hagrid said, as we walked back into the woods, the enclave of trees swallowing the view of Hogwarts. Soon, as we journeyed further inwards, even the light of the setting sun was bloated out almost but not so completely. Safe for the occasional fetid streak of light that broke through the small patches in the trees, however, there wasn't much light to speak of in the Forbidden Forest.

"What's not fair?" I asked. I thought, wonderingly, that Ron had shown again that he possessed the mind to comprehend and wonder far beyond most other blind fools. Perhaps there was a fallacy in his logic that I, too, shared.

"It takes a great deal of courage ter go against a bully that posses the kind of power that Malfoy do."

Eloquent spoken for such a _simple fella_ , but…

"No."

Hagrid blinked. "What?"

"No," I repeated. "It doesn't take courage. It takes _incentive_. The right motivation can make anyone – even the greatest of cowards – appear courageous."

Hagrid had actually stopped, stupefied, in his tracks, staring at me as if he couldn't quite comprehend the reality with which his eyes presented to that which his ears heard.

"Sometimes, Harry," Ron said, "I can barely understand you."

"You speak like an old man…" Hagrid's voice died in a kind of uncertainty that seemed almost dangerous in its contemplation. His eyes looked back, looked lost, caught in another time. "Like an old man with only false hope."

"What?"

"Dumbledore once told me something like that. A long time ago."

"Okay." I drawled the word, feigning boredom, masking dread, when really I wanted nothing more than to get away from this place. "What I meant was that if we – Ron and I – meant enough to anyone in our house, they'd defend us, or talk to us like we belonged to the same species, or at least fucking smile when our eyes met every once in a while."

There was a pause in conversation from there, and we made quick work of the forest. Soon we found ourselves back upon the open field leading back to Hogwarts and Hagrid's hut. The sun had set almost completely now, casting long and deep shadows across the fields and the steep hill back towards Hogwarts.

"What sort of business did the Sorting Hat have placing yeh in that horrible House?" Hagrid said out of the blue as we came to our final stop before we parted ways.

It seemed to think it was a necessity, I thought as I answered Hagrid's question internally. Why, I have no idea.

"I don't know," Ron said, though he cast a fleeting glance my way that I couldn't help but notice. Had the hat told Ron of its conversation with me? "It just sat on my head for a while and then decided on Slytherin."

"It never spoke to you?" I asked.

"Spoke to me? No, it spoke _at_ me. Rambled, really. I didn't understand a word of what it was going on about. Suddenly it just stopped and went quiet and then yelled Slytherin." He shrugged, as if to say what can you do. "I hate the thing, but at least it put us both in it together, you know."

I smiled. Yes. At least it did that much for us.

"Well, we better get back," I said, noting how darkness had almost completely settled down upon Hogwarts, noting how clouds gathered above. "We're gonna have to be careful not to get caught."

"Maybe I should escort you back," Hagrid said.

"No, thank you," I said. Though I enjoyed Hagrid's company, I felt I'd had quite enough of it for one evening. "Ron and I know how to avoid problems. We'll be fine. Besides, it will probably start raining soon. Good night, Hagrid – see you at dinner tomorrow."

"Night, Hagrid." Ron waved as Hagrid shuffled back home. "That man is bonkers, Harry."

"Yeah." I nodded, liking that fact about him. "Totally."

"I mean, if he was given the choice between saving a Slytherin student or that dragon…"

"He'd save the dragon every time."

"Every fucking time."

I glanced at Ron, smiling. "Can you blame him, though?"

"Merlin no! I'd do the same thing. But we must be mental, too, you know."

"Perhaps. Or maybe it's because we simply know them too well."

Ron laughed, then sighed as the first drop of rain hit my forehead. "Is it too much to ask for one reasonable Slytherin?"

"Yeah. You should ask for something more realistic." I paused. "Like a dragon."

We laughed and turned left, heading up the hill towards Hogwarts, which towered above like a beacon of – dare I say it? – home.

Home. What a wondrous, wondrous concept.

I felt a profound sense of affection and gratitude within whenever I laid eyes upon Hogwarts – especially after a time of abstinence – that could never be rivalled by anything before or after it. Even now, as rain slowly started cascading down on us in ever-growing waves, I felt something that cannot be described in mere words.

Hogwarts touches all who walks her splendour, but it touches more deeply, more everlastingly, those that did not know what home meant before her. She sweeps you in her embrace and she never lets you go. Never so completely again.

But at the time, as Ron and I walked up the hill in the now pouring rain, my appreciation of the view, and the feeling said view invoked, wilted out because…

"We're being followed, Ron."

"Wha-"

"No. Don't turn around. Keep walking. He came from the woods."

I regretted, though, almost instantaneously, that I'd told Ron of our pursuer. I could see the horror spread from the tips of his limbs all the way to centre of his body. His whole way of walking changed dramatically, becoming stiff and unnatural, his knowing instantly detectable.

I regretted, not because I feared Ron would freeze – he wouldn't – but because if our chaser had any sense to him, and it was indeed a man, then he'd notice Ron's change of demeanour. And he'd become aware of our awareness.

I chanced a glance back and beheld a man dressed in black robes, almost disappearing in the throbbing shadows of a night that seemed to have come alive with wet, malicious intent.

The man in black had changed, too. When I'd happened to note his presence moments ago, he'd seemed content to linger, watching us. Watching _me_.

And make no mistake, he was not here for Ron.

He wasn't content with that now. No, good sir, not at all satisfied with merely that.

Suddenly, so suddenly it almost seemed imaginary – and that delusion would prove costly – the air shifted all around us, and I felt the man in black move behind us. Shift into a higher focus. A greater kind, if you will.

"RUN!" I yelled and pushed Ron sideways, towards Hagrid and his hut, but barely had we separated – mere fucking metres between us – before I heard the dull thud of a body that crashed lifelessly onto the grass.

I turned, utter misery in my head, and beheld as Ron rolled back down the hill from which we came. Brandishing my wand quickly, I willed his body back to me instinctively and watched as he rolled to a stop as if strings held him back on the steepest back of the hill.

A jet of bright red light, sizzling and brimming in the drops of rain, forked through the night, contending with the darkness for an insurmountable moment, and I threw myself to the ground, letting go of Ron in the process.

Knowing, quite without knowing how I knew, that my meagre skills wouldn't be able to contend with that display of concentrated force, I let myself go down the side of the hill at an angle. Tucking and rolling, displaying a kind of athleticism I hadn't thought myself capable of, I managed to evade his next barrages of spells, of which came uninterruptible – as if weaved together, spells becoming spells becoming _spell_ – and I was caught, man. Caught flatfooted.

Caught in a fucking hamster wheel. With no way out. I'd been contemplating for a second too long before it all began, thinking instead of just acting, and the man in black had taken the lead, taken full advantage of my mistake.

Out of the corner of my mind, I felt rather than saw Ron's body disappear into the dead of the night, swallowed by the darkness as he glided by the man in black who was advancing on me up the hill.

And then, somehow impossibly, somehow out of nowhere, my mind shut down and my wand glided in an upward motion of sheer physical poetry, and I yanked a shield of palpable force out of non-existence and into this mad little world of mine.

Digging one foot and my free hand into the wet, muddy ground, forcefully stopping my roll and attaining proper mastery of this newfound athleticism of mine, I came to a stand atop one knee and one foot in a crouched position, wand aloft and brandished towards my darkened foe.

His wand, sputtering utter nonsensical destruction as far as I could tell, was held completely still. Beyond his slow approaching step, there was not a single gesture or sound coming from the man in black. He was all mind and purpose and magic – and I was truly transfixed with his grace and ease.

His spells, while powerful, seemed to hold no deadly intent, as my erected shield stood tall and steady against his barrage. Seeing this, however, the man made his first forceful swish with his wand, stopping his array of multi-coloured lights.

There was a moaning sound, as if the earth gave way to an unstoppable force, and I felt something tremendous shift behind me. Turning fast, I caught a glimpse of a small tree hurdling through the air and connecting – with a sickening, wet crack of bones snapping over and breaking off their sockets – with the side of my torso.

I fell into a world of which only pain could be found. Eyes blurry and mind half-conscious, voices of old and memories imaginary lingering in the deepest recesses of a mind that could no longer be entirely my own, I rose and found that I'd been hurled all the way back down the hill, coming to rest almost at the foot of the woods.

I managed a step forward, mind more than eyes focused upon the man of my misery, and fell face-first into the soft, dewy grass. Blood poured out of every orifice imaginable – and unimaginable, mind you – mingling in the rain. Moaning and shaking, wondering if dying would be preferable to this shit, I tried to stand again.

Fell again. Snorted an obscene amount of blood and retched it out of a ruined, broken throat. I noted I couldn't turn my head; it just sort of hung at an odd angle.

The man in black approached ever persistently. Unhurriedly.

I tried to get up again.

Succeeded.

Fell again.

Fucking shitting me!

My fingers were growing numb, my wand rolling about on the edges of my fingertips.

I stood.

He approached.

I fell to one knee, kept my cool and wits about me – seeing the world through a canopy of pure agony – and raised my wand to bear. My hand was steady, rock-fucking-solid and tight despite it all, and my mind was blank – no fear, no pain, no nothing.

I was ready to go all the way.

And then, without so much as a gesture or grimace upon his barely perceivably hooded face, he knocked my wand right outta my broken, fucking hand.

"You're a fascinating creature, Harry Potter," he said, the first sound he'd uttered in the rain. He sniffed the air as he drew closer, sniffed it, like a fucking dog. "The hand of death lingers on you. _Within_ you. You reek of it. Oh, I can positively _taste_ it." His tone of voice took on a note of eroticism, _lust_ , and I shivered deep in my broken bones. Fuck! Even shivering hurt. "I wonder… would your flesh taste the same?"

Fuck you, I said, but no words found themselves brave enough to actually leave my mouth. I couldn't feel my tongue, and wondered, aberrantly, if you even could that under normal circumstances.

"I wonder… you shouldn't have seen the light of your second year on this Earth and yet… here _you_ are. Here _we_ are. _Together_. _You_. With _me_. All together."

He's deranged! I saw it. Unhinged. Mind fallen of the cliff of saneness. I could almost taste it on him. The mind unmade.

"Oh, and here we are, courting death. Defying it with our every breath that we can muster. Cheating it of its dues. There's so much death in you, locked away behind a door in your mind you can only glimpse at in nightmares unfound. So much violence… in a child so young and _innocent_. It's all in your mind, Harry Potter."

I was slipping. Mind slipping away. Slipping into fields of blackness, into fields where reality could no longer visit upon your mind with its vitriolic cruelty. And I welcomed it – its numbness.

I welcomed it.

And the man in black was upon me, standing beside me, crouching down to me, his mouth at my ear, whispering, whispering, whispering…

"Beware, child, for the gateway straight _down_ to hell opens on the day of Christmas. And the devil will be seeking _you_."

And then I fell into the blessedly arms of untroubled, almost infinite unconsciousness.

* * *

I awoke to the sound, smell and _feeling_ of bones mending and reattaching to their sockets, crawling beneath my skin like wet, stony worms. I cried out at the sensation and shot upward in my, I must add, rather comfy bed.

The room was dark and I was without the sight my glasses provided me. A hand, feeling gnarly and thin, feeling old, seized my shoulder in a grip entirely too strong to be without the touch of magic.

"There, there, my boy… Rest, Harry – you'll need."

I don't know if it was magic or fright, but I literally _fell_ back into the bed, asleep.

When I came to later, there was light in the room, sun bathing us all with its grace, and my body wasn't crawling and mending all over the place.

To be frank, nothing seemed to hurt at all.

I blinked my eyes open against the intrusion of light, and beheld Ron at the bed beside me with the same blurry, glass-less vision. I couldn't see if his chest was rising or not, but knew that it must, for his snores seemed so great that they could rattle windows.

I exhaled a sigh of relief. Greatest relief I'd ever felt. He was alive! I'd thought…

"Curious thing, friendship. Wondrous, even."

I blinked and turned my head, and my eyes found the ancient-like, jovial face of our esteemed Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

"Good morning, Harry. How do you feel?"


End file.
